Hetalia Theory
by onebillionstars
Summary: Hetalia Theory says that each nation lived a human life under their human name. Their lives and their deaths explain many of their characteristics and their personalities, such as why Russia has such cruel and sadistic tendencies or why England can see hallucinations. Quick warning: may contain some disturbing content (i.e. drug use, rape reference and violence).
1. Arthur- Softly, Softly

**_**All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them.**_**

**_**The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each.**_**

**_**Fi**_****r_st, I'll write about England who, in his human life as Arthur Kirkland, was a drug addict who died of an overdose of hallucinogenic drugs. This explains the 'imaginary friends' he sees as a nation._**

* * *

"Why does it have to be so bloody cold all the damn time?" Arthur murmured to himself, his voice slurred and broken.

It might have been the English air, heavy with crisp mist that bit at Arthur's exposed face. Or it might have been Arthur himself. His body was thin and frail, his cheekbones prominent and his cheeks sunken and sallow. He looked as though he would be blown over by the smallest wind.

He didn't care to venture out these days. Not for groceries. Not for new clothes. Not to repair the faucet that had been dripping for three months. Not for the drafty window, even though it was the one thing he couldn't stand. It whispered softly, softly in his ear. 'Arthur, oh Arthur. Come here.'

'Ha ha! Never! Damn your trickery!' He would screech, pointing at it accusingly. Arthur tended to talk not only to the window, but to himself as well. It comforted him. After all, he was oh-so-alone.

The only reason he was struggling through the cold, ice-glazed streets was to get more of the one thing he craved. Marc, who he was going to see, called it PSP, or angel dust if he was trying to advertise. As if he needed advertisement! Who wouldn't want beloved angel's dust?

Arthur liked to think of it as angel dust. Only the angels could bless us pitiful scum with such a sweet vision of heaven! Yes, yes! Heaven! He needed to see more… More! He was one step closer. Around the corner now. Into the ally, yes. Where monsters lurked behind boxes and in the dark corners, jumping out at him and trying to take him away.

"You won't take me away!" He muttered as he entered the ally. "You won't take me away… you won't take me... you won't take me… you won't take me…"

"Shit, Arthur. You sound like a damn broken record." Marc was there, his arms crossed. Dressed in that damn brown ratty hoody. You see, it attracted the demons. They were around him all the time. How could Marc not see them?

Arthur saw them.

"Bastard, you voice is fucking annoying." Was Arthur's response. "Like a thousand knives splitting me right down the middle."

"Like hell I care." Marc said. "Do you want your stuff or not?"

"Of-of course I do! That's what I'm here for. Give it to me!" Arthur's hands reached out and grabbed at Marc's arms, yanking at the jacket.

"What are you doing, you bastard?" Marc tried to shove him off.

"Can't you see them? They're all over you! The demons!" Arthur looked frantic and he grasped at the empty air around Marc. "They'll take you away! You can't leave me. No no no no no no."

"Fuck, man, you look like shit. I've dealt to a lot of fucked up people, but you're prob'ly the worst. I mean, look atcha. You're so damn pale."

"Being pale is a sign of royalty you know! Can't you see my crown? It's so pretty and gold!"

"Just give me your money and take this." He held up a bag full of his precious angel's dust. "It'll be fifty."

"Here, here!" Arthur dug in the pockets of the jacket that was now far too large on him. "You can even keep the change."

Arthur snatched the bag and threw a ten euro note and a few paper clips at the dealer. He stumbled away, clutching the bag to his chest. Marc stood, bewildered.

"Fucked up bastard. How much I'll bet that this'll be the last time he visits me." Marc shook his head. "Demons are coming to get me… Arthur'll be a dead man soon."

* * *

Arthur stumbled into his empty flat. There was only one chair, he had to sell the rest to buy his favorite thing. He fell into the chair, pulling out the small bag from Marc. He fumbled around, searching for the paper wrappers that the monsters in the chair had eaten.

"There!" He exclaimed, finding the package. "Nice try! You won't be getting them this time." He kicked and punched at the chair.

With shaking hands, Arthur tapped out a small amount of his beloved onto the paper and rolled it up, sealing it with a lick of his tongue.

"Lighter, lighter! Give me light, I need to see. I need to see what the angels have in store for me! Ha ha! It'll be beautiful!" Arthur searched for his lighter, desperate to reach the sweet release his beloved brought him. He flicked the lighter a few times. Nothing. No flame.

"No! No, god no!" Arthur became frantic. He flicked the lighter until his hands went numb. "Come on, dammit!" His fingernails were ragged and bitten down to the cuticle, which were also bleeding from flicking it over and over and over. He felt a rising sense of panic in his chest, consuming him, swallowing him whole. This couldn't possibly be. "What a cruel god you are." He snarled into the ceiling.

It echoed, softly, softly.

He continued to flick the lighter for another ten minutes, until it, along with his hands, his jacket and the ratty chair were splattered with droplets of crimson blood.

Finally, a spark lit and the small tube began to smoke. "Dearest God! Thank you for letting me partake in your world!"

His dark, grey flat became filled with more visions. Ambiguous shapes emerged out of corners, speaking softly, softly. 'Hello Arthur. Come here. Come with us.'

"You've never asked me to come with you before. Do you love me that much?" He asked, the empty flat echoing his scratchy voice. "I won't go. I like it here."

'Why won't you come?' They asked. 'No matter, we'll make you come with us.'

They drifted closer. They snatched his beloved.

"Give that back!" He yelled, glaring at the taunting black figures. They were increasing in number.

'Come and get it yourself, Arthur.' They whispered in unison. Softly, softly.

"Give it back, damn you!" He ran after them, stumbling over the hard tile floor.

They were leading him toward the window. 'Come, Arthur.' The window whispered. They spat flames at him, growing close and closer.

'Come closer Arthur.'

'Arthur, Arthur! Come closer!'

'Yes, Arthur. We want to see you!'

'Arthur.'

'Arthur!'

'We only want to see you!'

'Come closer.'

'Come closer!'

'COME CLOSER!'

"Ahhhh!" His head felt like it was splitting into a thousand pieces. The voices were tearing him apart. This was not heaven, with the heat of a thousand tongues of flame lapping at his ankles and the screams of the damned around him. This was hell, this was not what he wanted.

He screamed, launching himself at the window for his beloved. His hand went through the glass, slicing it to ribbons. But he felt no pain, only the suffering.

Arthur collapsed, the red closing in on him. "Our Father, which art in heaven…" He never prayed, and hadn't recited this since he was a child, but his voice wouldn't stop. "… And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Arthur felt the world fading

"… The power. And the glory. For ever and ever."

For the first time in a long time, he was scared.

"Amen."

And he was gone, the world and the heavens leaving him behind. Alone. In the darkness.

Fading.

Softly, softly.

* * *

The first color he remembers seeing is green. The dark and light green that danced in front of his eyes as the sunlight shone through the canopy of trees above him.

He sat up and was confronted with something that looked and felt familiar, but he couldn't remember seeing it before.

"Hello England!" A small, mint colored bunny flitted around him.

The wind blew in the forest around him.

Softly,

Softly.

* * *

**_Well, chapter one is finished now. Next will be America. I will try to upload that as soon as I can._  
**

**_Feedback is REALLY appreciated guys! Please review and tell me what you think!_**


	2. Alfred- Withering Away

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_ Next is America, known as Alfred F. Jones in his human life. He was a normal teenager who suffered with and later died of anorexia nervosa, explaining his great appetite and love of fatty food. _**

* * *

Although he tended to not pay much mind to a lot of things in his life, there was one part of his life Alfred payed special attention to; his parents remaining in the dark. If they somehow found out that he had slowly but surely starving himself, god knows what they'd do to him. A therapist every day for months or worse, they might send him to some psych ward in the middle of the country where nutrients would be practically forced down his throat. This left him with only one possibility; they _really_ couldn't know.

At first, it was simple enough for Alfred to hide it. An extra undershirt beneath his clothes and bam! He looked perfectly normal. But now, since he had dropped so much weight, it was far harder to hide it like he used to. Baggy long-sleeved shirts and sweatshirts became a frequent wardrobe choice. He was quite afraid that it wouldn't be long before someone noticed.

For the first time in what seemed like months, his parents would both be home tonight, and he couldn't be around them that long. And, as he'd just discovered, he couldn't stay in his room. A couple of minute ago, his mother had called out from the kitchen, asking him what he wanted for dinner. Alfred couldn't eat dinner. Dinner was only water for him now. So was breakfast, lunch, or any other occasion to eat. So, Alfred saw only one way to get out of it.

He hauled himself off of his bed and threw on more of the loose-fitting clothes he owed his secrecy too, and left his room.

"Hey, mom?" He peaked his head through the kitchen door. "I forgot that I, uh, said I'd go to Kiku's house to… play a game with him."

"Do you have to go? We're just about to eat together for the first time in months…" She turned around to face him, holding a dish of what smelled like chicken.

Oh god… he suddenly felt _very_ hungry. He had to get out of there. "Yeah, but it's the beta release of a really popular game, and they released like one hundred copies of it or something."

"Oh, well that's a shame. Tell Mrs. Honda I said hello then." She looked dejected and, for a moment, Alfred felt terribly guilty. But his desperation to get away from food won out over the guilt. "Oh! Won't you be warm in all of those layers?"

_Shit. Okay, think Alfred, think._ "Nah, you know how cold Kiku keeps his house. I'll be fine. And I'll tell Mrs. Honda hello for you. Bye mom, dad!" He said as he closed the front door behind him.

Alfred was quite relieved to be out of there, especially after the clothing question was fired at him. Now that he was out, he didn't really know where to go though. Kiku's house was out of the question; they were visiting family in Tokyo this week, so they weren't home. He thought about maybe visiting an old friend of his, Natalia, but then he remembered how much she loved to give hugs, and immediately vetoed the idea. He went through a list of friends in his head, but realized that they were either busy, they liked hugs or they weren't close enough to him for Alfred to randomly drop by at 8:30 on a Thursday night.

So he decided to walk downtown. He lived in a small town in Virginia, complete with a fit-for-the-movies main street, homey atmosphere and cheap little shops. He could waste a few hours walking in and out of stores and around the few small blocks. By the time he would be done, his parents would be finished with dinner and probably in bed because they had another early flight out to work tomorrow.

When he reached the main street, it was decorated with the cheesy American flag decorations and red, blue and white streamers winding their way around lampposts that signified only one thing. The Fourth of July was tomorrow, and there would be a small parade, which for some reason always calls for the worst looking decorations in all of the state, if not in all of the country. But, despite the fact that they oozed cheap, he liked them nonetheless. It was nice to see that people still cared about the country, even though it wasn't in the best state right now.

Save for the decorations and a few other people, Alfred was pretty much alone as he walked down the paved street. Walking across from him in the opposite direction was some middle-aged woman that he vaguely recognized, but he couldn't place. She toted along a young daughter, maybe around six or seven years of age, with frizzy blonde hair, a beaming smile and bright eyes. Her enthusiasm and innocence almost reminded Alfred of himself as a child, so oblivious to the harsh reality that this world thrust upon your shoulders once your mind was mature enough to even begin to grasp it. Free of insecurity and self-doubt.

Alfred laughed quietly to himself. _Oh, how age changes us. _He was sounding like some old man who bequeathed wisdom gained over a long life of hardships to his grandchildren. And yet, he wasn't even quite an adult yet.

He meandered down the street for quite some time, passing a small general store, a couple of clothing boutiques, the police department and even the movie theater. He observed them through their windows, admiring how the clothing was hung and folded in neat, precise rows. He liked to think about how someone cared enough about patterned dresses and pressed slacks to take such care, to think that those clothes were someone's passion.

Alfred didn't really have any passions, other than keeping food at a distance. He used to love model airplanes, but somewhere in the past messed-up year, he had lost that hobby for some reason. Before the planes, it was video games, but those lost appeal too. Even football, one of his favorite sports, seemed dull to him after a while. Most things seemed uninteresting to him these days. It was as if the lack of nutrients was finally getting to his brain.

He stopped outside of a small shop at the end of the street. It was one he knew well. The shop, which sold everything from baseball caps to homemade preserves to nails, was something he and his father used to frequent when he was younger and his dad was still around. Struck by memories, he pulled open the glass door, the bell tingling as he did, and stepped inside the cool, dry store.

As soon as he did, he was overcome with nostalgia. He remembered the happy days, when his parents' marriage wasn't troubled and Alfred wasn't starving himself. When he passed through the doorframe, he was also hit was something else; the smell of fresh-baked fudge. It made his mouth water to a ridiculous extent and his stomach gnaw at itself in a desperate attempt to get him to eat.

_Shit._

As soon as thoughts of fleeing to the scent-devoid street, a sweet old woman named Magdala popped her gray-capped head above the counter. "Well, hello there!" She was always cheery, Magdala. She had been since he was a child. "It's been a while since I've seen you, Alfred. My, how you've grown."

She was right about that. He was now about 5'10'', and towered over her less-than-five-foot figure. But he'd pretty much shrunk everywhere else. "Yeah, it's been a while." He scratched the back of his neck nervously. _Please don't offer me anything. Please, Magdala._

"I was wondering if you would try some of the fudge I just made. Everyone else in town is at home, and I don't want to serve it to my customer's tomorrow without a taste-tester's approval."

"Oh, Magdala, I think I'll pass. I'm not really hungry." _Oh god._

"Come now, Alfred. It's just a bite. You used to love my fudge when you were little." She was right, and his mouth was assaulted with memories of the taste.

"Well… I…" He trailed off. He couldn't do this. Fudge would never fly. Apples; sure. Oranges; why the hell not. But fudge? It was fatty and full of calories.

"Please dear?" That damn sweet face of hers could make Jack Frost himself melt into a puddle.

"Fine." His heartbeat picked up. "But just a little piece."

Unfortunately, Magdala's definition of 'a little piece' was very different from his. He stared at the piece of peanut butter and vanilla fudge in his hand, her signature, and painfully shoved the thing in his mouth.

Even though he wasn't supposed to be eating it, good god was it good. "It's great, Magdala. Really, it is. But I have to go now."

"Oh, alright, Alfred. I'll see you tomorrow then!" She called, smiling her old granny smile. "At the parade!"

"Yeah, sure." He responded.

Alfred rushed out onto the street, now empty, and hurried through the flickering light of the old lampposts. He didn't typically resort to bulimic habits, but he needed to get rid of what he just ate. He stumbled into one of the small, dark side alleys in between The Sunny Side Up Diner and the town hall, which was really just a tiny office space.

He took a deep breath and jammed two of his fingers down his throat, waiting until his gag reflex kicked in. When it did, he hunched over, bringing up sour-tasting bile. But there was something else too. He looked down. Splattered on the pavement was, in the poor light of early night, a black liquid. In his mouth remained a metallic tint. Blood.

_Oh god. _He suddenly didn't feel well. His stomach began doing somersaults and forcing more of the dark substance out of him. His vision began blurring and he felt light-headed. He grasped the edge of the stone wall, trying to stand, but ultimately fell to the cement ground.

With his back resting against the wall, he struggled for breath, attempting to force oxygen into his spastic lungs. It wasn't working and the feeling was terrifying. More terrifying than his first time on a roller coaster, more terrifying than the first time his mother had slapped, more fear-inducing than when his father came home drunk. It was even worse than the absolute alarm he experienced when he was forced to eat.

The panic rising in his chest, threatening to consume him, couldn't be stopped this time and he felt his mind get lost in the tidal surge. He was withering away in it. He felt week too, helpless to whatever this was. But despite the turmoil he was experiencing, he managed to feel sleepy.

He was so, so sleepy.

* * *

America's eyes opened wide, taking in the vast blue skies above him. He was instantly awake. After all, who needed sleep anyway? He jolted up, hearing his stomach grumble to protest not having a meal in a couple of hours.

"Hey, Mr. Buffalo?" He called out, a big furry beast making its way over to him. "Let's go get breakfast, huh? I'm starving!"

* * *

**I apologize for taking so long to release this chapter. I was in a bad car accident and, since I had some head trauma, couldn't use the computer for a long time. Also, this chapter was hard for me to write since I used to struggle with anorexia. Anyway, I would really appreciate reviews! Next up is France, with a rather tragic story.**


	3. Author's Note No 1

**_Okay, so, a quick little author's note. I am so SO sorry that I temporarily turned into one of those authors who randomly take long hiatuses and don't write and just... But I have an explanation! So I had my concussion thing, and then I started high school and my personal life is far from good right now so..._**

**_Anyway, I'll be uploading the third chapter (about our dear France) later tonight. Maybe at about 12 AM EST (if you live in the US) or 4 AM GMT for those of you in Europe._**

**_To all of my reviewers so far: thank you so much for your kind words!_**

**_To the reviewer that forgot their password: yes, that will be one of the chapters. But, it's a while away. You'll have to wait!_**

**_After I finish the next chapter, please continue to review!_**


	4. Francis-He Could Have Been Anything Else

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each. _**

**_This chapter is about Francis Bonnefoy, a rape victim and male prostitute who died of AIDS. _**

**_*quick warning* This is probably going to be one of the 'darkest' chapters in this series, so… yeah. _**

**_I also have some French in this one (I'm fluent, so I thought, why the hell not?), and translations are at the bottom._**

* * *

So this was where his decisions had gotten him. Maybe it would have been better if he had chosen a far less questionable career. His parents wanted him to get into the banking business; he would have even made a good starving artist. But, difficult circumstances and the cruel reality of life had steered him in a far different direction.

But now that Francis sat on a pristine white hospital bed, weak, dangerously warm, depressed and far too thin, he was really questioning if prostitution was the only direction he could've gone. There must have been other ways to earn money in a short amount of time.

He sighed. _Oh well, the damage is already done._

He glanced down at his pale forearms and furiously tried to scrub away the red lesions that had begun forming a couple of weeks ago. According to the doctors that attended to him in this antiseptic-scented Parisian hospital room, he really didn't have long.

Up until _that_ incident, Francis hadn't even encountered the disease that was now wreaking havoc on his body. He had been anything but pure, but he only interacted with clients who he knew had no exposure to the disease and protection was always used. But, one night, he took a wrong turn not just on his way home, but in his life. It wasn't something he cared to remember, but his mind was clear of anything else, so it wandered into dark territory.

* * *

_Paris in the springtime was a sight to behold. Flowering trees lined the banks of the Seine, the smell of fresh crepes wafting through the streets and there was a gentle breeze that wound its way through the alleys and streets at night. It sounded stereotypical, but almost every ounce of the American-hyped image was true. Almost._

_ Francis had just finished… meeting with a client. He was making his way through the deuxieme arondissement, heading back to the hotel he frequented when he visited the bustling business district full of… clients. That gentle breeze was blowing and the smell from a small café tickled his nose, so he decided to close his eyes and let his feet guide him on the now very familiar path._

_ He continued on like this for a considerable amount of time, the diverse conversations of Paris' citizens drifting in and out his ears. Despite his iffy career and the fact that he worried about not making rent almost every other month, Francis was content. Thinking over the past memories he had that were pleasant, he lost himself in his mind and momentarily lost his bearings._

_ An acrid scent reached his nose, and the pleasant chatter faded way into the background. Surprised by the sudden change, he opened his eyes, scrunching his eyebrows in response to the sight in front of him. One of the dark alleys that lined Paris' streets, mildew lined and full of the sounds of rats' claws on cement or cobblestone. They ran in systems behind buildings, which could allow one to get quite lost; a predicament Francis found himself in now. Looking behind and in front of him, all he could see were the trash bins behind buildings, overflowing with packaging. He sighed, and continued his wandering._

Perhaps I'll see if I can find someone,_ he thought. _There has to be someone around here…

_ After a good couple blocks' worth of walking, he noticed a man in a loose coat having a smoke. Although he didn't appear to be the friendliest of sorts, he went ahead and asked where in the hell he was. Paris was his city, but he didn't know the behind-the-scenes areas._

_ "Excuse-moi? Est-ce que tu sais ou nous sommes? Je suis incroyablement perdre..." He gave the man a half smile, somewhat embarrassed at how lost he was._

_ "Oui, tu es tres perdre…" The man responded, giving him a quick once-over. "Viens avec moi." He turned and started walking._

_ Francis followed in his wake. About five minutes later, he started wondering why it was taking so long. "Est-ce que tu sais ou tu vais? Nous marchions pour cinq minutes."_

_ A gruff, "Bien sur," was the response._

_A couple of minutes later, they stopped. "Ici, prends ce. L'odeur ici n'est pas bon." He offered a small cloth that he implied he hold over his mouth. He obliged, being rather foolish. How naïve he was, to think that human beings were naturally kind people concerned about rancid scents._

_ He immediately began to feel light headed, his nerves began to send alarm signals to his brain, but they were far too late._

_…_

_When he woke up, Francis remembered feeling cold. He didn't have clothes on, which he wasn't entirely estranged to, but he did not remember taking them off, not did he remember binding his own wrists. Immediately, his heartbeat began to thrum against his ribcage. Although he liked playing it rough sometimes (and honestly had been in a similar position before), this wasn't his doing._

_ "Tu es éveillé, hm?" He heard a deep voice him sound. Unfortunately, a chorus of other voices filled the air behind him too, some of them even English._

_"This'll be fun!"_

_"Oui, regardes son corps!"_

_"Il a été un moment depuis que nous avons baisé personne."_

_ They were crude, and he knew exactly what was going to happen to him now. Francis closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, tried to steady his pounding heart. Panic wouldn't help him. He felt hands reaching to yank his head up by his hair and he tried to block his senses._

_ "Je parie que vous êtes assez utilize…" A sneer. Whoever the man was, he smelled heavily of marijuana._

_ It was painful. All of it. He usually enjoyed sex, but there was no pleasure in what happened then. It was tears and bleeding and hurting hands. After they had finished, he remembered seeing his clothes thrown in a corner of the room, still intact, unlike him._

* * *

Two weeks later, still having told no one, after experiencing some peculiar symptoms, he went to see a doctor, who informed him of his regrettable condition. That had been about three months ago. Three months and his body and his mental strength had fallen to pieces. Especially lately, his condition had dramtically worsened. Somewhere in his own mind, he knew that he would probably be dead by the time the staff came in to draw blood the next morning.

He was laughable before, making his living as an escort, but now he deserved the laughter of a good stand up routine.

So there he sat in his hospital room, in his white gown.

"Mon dieu, comment pituyable." He said quietly to himself, shaking his head.

...

That night, as he fell into a fitful sleep, he thought about how little he had amounted to. He had so many options. Maybe he should have gone into banking. He should have been a starving artist. He should have been anything but was he had been.

Oh well, he would have a chance to try again in a few moments, wouldn't he?

* * *

When he and Angleterre met, the boy always accused France of perverted thoughts. Of perverted things. It was somewhat true; his mind wasn't the cleanest, but it wasn't at any fault of his own. Things had always been that way. He had always appreciated a woman's beautiful legs, the curve of her backside. He had always admired the muscle and sinew that moved under the skin of a young man. He didn't know why. It was just some small part of who the nation was.

* * *

**_Ah! Francis is my baby so… wow, was this chapter hard to write. I hope my pain was at least shared in some respect. I also apologize for the long wait again! China comes next!_**

**_Here are the translations._**

**Excuse-moi? Est-ce que tu sais ou nous sommes? Je suis incroyablement perdre...: Excuse me? Do you know where we are? I am incredibly lost…**

**Oui, tu es tres perdu... Viens avec moi.: Yes, you are very lost… Come with me.**

**Est-ce que tu sais ou tu vais? Nous marchions pour cinq minutes.: Do you know where you're going? We've been walking for five minutes.***

**Bien sur: Of course**

**Ici, prends ce. L'odeur ici n'est pas bon.: Here, take this. The smell here isn't good.**

**Tu es éveillé, hm?: You're awake, hm?**

**Oui, regardes son corps!: Yeah, look at his body!**

**Il a été un moment depuis que nous avons baisé personne.: It's been a while since we've fucked anybody.**

**Je parie que vous êtes assez utilize…: I bet you're pretty used...**

**Mon dieu, comment pituyable.: My god, how pitiable.**


	5. Yao- Stinging Eyes, Burning Lungs

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_Now, we hear the story of Wang Yao, a child laborer in a restaurant in Shanghai who died in a structural fire, which explains his uncannily delicious cooking (okay… I love Chinese food, if you hadn't figured that out already)._**

* * *

When Yao was seven years old, his father hit him for the first time. It wasn't as though he was surprised, his parents fought constantly and he knew that their violence would eventually turn on him, but it didn't stop tears from welling up in his eyes. He remembered clutching his cheek, where small pinpoint blossoms of blood began to erupt under his skin. At first, he thought he saw a passing look of guilt over his father's face, but then the alcohol took over again.

His mother had simply sat and stared.

When Yao was seven years old, he left his house one day and began the grueling thirteen-hour days at a small restaurant near the center of Shanghai. It was his choice; anything to get him out of the house. His parents did not care what happened to him, only that he gave them every Renminbi he earned for booze and who knows what else. But he was all right with that. He always managed to sneak away a couple of Renminbi anyway. He hid them under the shelf in his closet in a little box from when times were happy.

October tenth had been a normal day for Yao. He left at the crack of dawn, before his parents' shouting matches started, and began to make his way though the heavy city air to the restaurant. The place was relatively simple on the outside. It glowed with a warm yellow light, with peeling paint and slightly rotting wooden trim on the outside. The scent of fish, not terribly clean burners and cooking oil made its way into the street this early in the morning. As the day progressed, the smell got better as the actual food started cooking.

When Yao walked in, he was met with a familiar sight. The owner of the restaurant, a short and rather rotund man named Cheung, was having a quiet argument on the phone, probably with his wife, who had never been happy in their marriage. This world was filled with unhappy people.

Cheung's name was entirely ironic. The man was perhaps the unluckiest alive. When he was a child, he was nearly run over by a car three times, he almost died from some rare illness that has yet to have a name, his brothers all became successful bankers and he… well, he owned a low quality restaurant in the red light district. His wife was barren, he lost checks like the normal people lost pens and buttons always mysteriously popped off of his shirts. What sort of bad luck would it be today? Yesterday, it was the fact that their supplier had lost every single chicken foot that they had ordered for the week.

About ten feet from him sat Cheung's neighbor, an elderly women by the name of Wang Xiu Ying. She jokingly claimed that she was only forty, but she was most likely a ways into her seventies. She filled her name well, for she was one of the most brave and elegant people Yao had ever had the pleasure of meeting. The woman was a walking history book. She lived through World War II and had managed to get past the tragic loss of her son in his teens. Why she hung around here of all places, Yao had no idea.

"You there, brat, get to work!" Cheung snapped at him as he walked past.

"Yes." He responded, dipping his head in submission.

Yao made his way back to the kitchens. When he had first come here, desperate for any sort of employment, Cheung was kind enough to let him wash dishes all day for five Renminbi. It wasn't a great wage, but he didn't mind. As long as he was away from home. And the people were nice enough. The cook was a quiet, but considerate older man from a remote village deep in the southern countryside. The other hands were mostly from other poor families in the inner city, like Yao. However, no other children worked there.

His day started out as it typically did; he polished the platters and silverware that would be set out on tables when the customers came in, he made sure that all of the dishes that he had washed yesterday were free of particles of food and then he cleaned the glasses again. He went on with all of this for about two hours until there wasn't a speck of anything on any tableware. Although he may have been a child, Yao was quite good at what he did.

Lunch wasn't for another two hours, so that left Yao a very exciting option. When he finished early, the cook sometimes let him make spring rolls. It turns out that Yao was quite good at that, so his superior sometimes let him cook.

"Deshi?" Yao climbed on top of a stool that was typically reserved for his short stature. "Can I help you cook today? I finished early."

The older man laughed, a small smile etching the wrinkles in his face. "Of course, Yao." He pushed a basket of cabbage, carrots and bok choy toward him. "Chop this up for me."

"Thank you." Yao dipped his head and began to get to work.

He chopped the vegetables into fine slivers and segments in about twenty minutes. He presented his full cutting board to Deshi, who told him to go get the pastry out of the storeroom in response.

Yao traveled back to the large back room where all of their ingredients were kept. When he opened the heavy metal door, his eyes widened. It was an absolute mess. Crates of vegetables and coolers with fish and meat piles high were spontaneously placed throughout the room, instead of on shelves. It looked as though someone had attempted to organize the typically messy room and hadn't completed the job, leaving boxes everywhere.

Yao sighed and went to the place the spring roll wrappers typically were, hoping that they were still there. Unfortunately, they were not, so Yao began to search. He examined what seemed to him like mountains of bags of rice, rows of jars of seasoning, heaps of vegetables and piles of cuts of meat.

To no avail, he could not find them. The thought of that they might be on a top shelf occurred to him, and he decided to go get one of the cooks, who were far taller than he was. That was when, still inside the storeroom, he noticed an unusual amount of noise. It was foreign. It was a sound that had what sounded like cracking and shattering and almost a roaring life to it. Yao opened the door, only to be confronted with something shocking.

The entire kitchen was bathed in warm light, but not from the lamps. No, it was from fire. Walls or hot orange ate way at walls and wooden supports. Yao's eyes widened, hands dropping to his sides.

Suddenly, he heard his name being called. "Yao! Yao!" It was distant, but he could hear it clearly nonetheless. It sounded like Deshi. "Where are you? Yao!"

Yao could suddenly see his face faintly behind the tongues of fire. He looked frantic almost, which was a rare look on the typically calm man. "Come on!" He extended a hand, which was bitten by tendrils of fire.

Yao tried to get to him, he did, but the air was too heavy with smoke and the fire was too thick to go on. He collapsed in coughing fits, doubling over. His eyes stung, tears desperately trying to wash out the irritant.

Deshi's face could no longer be seen, and he was glad for that. He didn't want a man who had a family and love in his life to die for the sake of a lonely, abused child. Now that he sat on the floor, flames quickly moving toward him with no escape route, he saw that fire had a life of its own. It twisted and turned, lapping at the air with fervor. Starving for fuel, it devoured pieces of wood and cloth, but its hunger was still not satiated.

Yao watched. He sat and stared, nothing else left to do. Although the air was so unbearably hot, and his eyes stung, and his lungs burned, it was still beautiful. He supposed it was still a somewhat nice way to go, despite the fact that he knew it would be painful.

He wondered if his parents would even notice if he was gone. They would probably only notice the thirty-five Renminbi that were missing each week, not the one who was earning it. If he did have a funeral, he supposed that the cooks would come, if they all made it out okay, that is. But he was fine with that.

A tongue of flame licked at his foot. But he didn't flinch. He didn't move. He didn't shy away. At least his life was ending in the one place he actually felt happy.

* * *

China had been born with a gift. Cooking had been a trait genetically woven into the fabric of his hands from the heel to the tips of his fingernails. When Japan was younger, he used to break his demure mold and devour his cooking, always demanding seconds. Yet, the boy remained thin. He honestly had no idea where that food went.

Although nowadays, the food modeled after his cooking that was served outside of his own house was far from what is was supposed to be. And what America had done to his recipes… he didn't want to think about it.

China's restaurants were far superior. However, because there tended to be so many in tight quarters, structural fires so often burned down the good ones. They raged through, fueled by cooking grease, and turned anyplace to ashes within minutes. It was a shame, really, but because of the sheer mass and populous of his cities, it could not be avoided. He wondered how many good cooks he lost every day to those flames…

* * *

_**That's it for this chapter. Oh god, Russia is next... His will be certainly interesting to write...**_

_**Also, I'm almost at 2,000 views! Thank you so much everyone!**_

_**One last note: I'll be updating this on Sundays (I'm actually going to stick to a schedule this time around).**_

_**What do you think? Please review!**_


	6. Ivan- An Empty Landscape

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them. _**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_I'm a bad author. I know, I know. I was supposed to update this last week, but I've been struggling a lot in the personal aspects of my life, and writing (as well as any other productive task) has been really hard for me as of late. I apologize and will try my best to get this back on track._**

**_And, by the way, I'm basing the setting off of the asylums that were more like prisons from before the 40's._**

**_Now, I present you with Russia. Ivan was a schizophrenic who died in a mental hospital. This explains his childlike cruelty and 'insane' tendencies._**

* * *

The only view of the outside world that Ivan had seen for the past seven years was a vast expanse of snow framed in between four iron bars. It was white. White and bland. He had vague memories of where he grew up, with sun and flowers, but he could only remember white. He could only remember an endless winter. The winter was all he had.

He didn't really mind it, winter. It was beautiful in its own way, just like everything in the world. The icicles that formed on the overhang above his window were filled with beautiful ridges and glimmered when the sun caught their dagger-like forms. When the snow fell, it swirled about in the air, dancing to an imperceptible tune. If Ivan looked outside, even in the middle of the night, the sky was an eerie pale gray.

One of the two things he hated about the never-ending winter was the cold. The stone walls kept out none of the freezing air, and his room turned into somewhat of a frigid container when the sun was down, which was more often than not. The cold was bone chilling, and Ivan barely had anything to retain his own warmth.

The other thing that Ivan did not like about the winter was the abundance of monotone colors. The sky, the ground and even the trees were dyed a pale gray or white. It wasn't that he wanted a more 'exciting' view, but the dead background only provided the perfect canvas for exactly what he wanted to keep out. His own demons took advantage of that blank space. Oftentimes, Ivan would end up on the cold tone floor, curled up, hands desperately trying to block out everything from the whispers to the screams. They played out their sinister, delusionary tragedies on the empty backdrop. They were the reason that he had been outcast from his friends, his family and even total strangers. They were the reason he was in the frozen-over hell that he was in now and, in his rare moments of clarity, he only wanted them to go away. But they pursued him with a vengeance.

Who was he? He could rarely recognize himself anymore when they were there. How long had he been here? His mind could no longer properly put together time. It could no longer properly discern his own illusions and reality, running the two dimensions together like wet paint, mixing in a muddy stream of swirling colors.

**Yes, who are you, Ivan? **That voice was whispering into the deepest recesses of his ears. **You're the crazy one. They locked you in here for a reason.**

_It was your family, you know it. They didn't want the embarrassment of having a danger to society in their own home. You were, you are, a disgrace. _The second one whispered.

"Stop it." He tried to order them. They hadn't listened for his whole life, and he understood that they wouldn't start now.

**You can't quiet your own head, you pitiless disgrace.**

_ Worthless lunatic._

"Stop it." He said more firmly. He was curled against the cold gray wall, hands pressed against his ears. Every effort to keep them out was futile.

**Psychopath! You know you are, just admit it.**

"I-I'm not a psychopath." Ivan's voice trembled slightly. He hated himself; what he was, how he acted, how he couldn't keep the voices away. He would do anything to release himself of this prison that his mind was ensnared inside of.

_Ha! Just keep telling yourself that. _It paused for a moment, almost as though it was thinking of its own accord. _Do you remember that time as a child, when you hurt your mother?_

"That was you. I would never touch my mother. Never touch her. No, no." Ivan remembered it well, unfortunately, but his mind insisted on recreating it again and again, showing him what he did so terribly wrong.

Ivan saw it in front of him. He saw his mother's kind lavender eyes, her warm smile, what little he could piece together of her lovely memory in his scrambled mind. He saw her, splashed with red, heard her cries of agony, her screams. 'You-you monster!' He heard her shriek, over and over and over and over again.

"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it." He chanted, desperately begging it to stop. His feet, the walls, it was stained with crimson, dripping and sliding toward himself, both his real self and his child hallucinatory self.

**Why stop? You deserve to see it over and over again. You wonder who you are Ivan? That's who you are.**

_Yes! That's who you are!_

The two voices began to yell at him, filling his ears with excruciating ringing and screeching and white noise. He felt a deep-rooted panic welling up inside of his chest, banging against his rib cage, demanding to be let free. It crawled up his throat, seizing his windpipe and making his vision dim. Finally, he let loose a scream. He pushed the air and the panic and the fear through his throat until it was raw. Then, in the absence of emotion, he felt the embers of an ever-present anger being tended in the pit of his stomach. They deserved to suffer, those goddamn voices and the goddamn 'doctors' and the goddamn men in goddamn white with the goddamn needles and the goddamn drugs. All of them, they needed to understand what they had done to him.

He was collapsing in upon himself, an implosion and explosion akin to the ones that only happen to the brightest and most massive stars. Soon, he knew, his mind would only be a smear across his former self, just like the light of those dying stars.

**Yes! Collapse, Ivan. Make them suffer! Make them regret ever laying their hands on you.**

_We're here to help. Do what you want Ivan. Be the destructive, psychotic lunatic you truly are!_

In his week state, they bled through his barriers. He saw the shadows around him twist and manifest into something he subconsciously knew they were not. They grew smirks and rose to meet him.

_ Oh, Ivan._

Suddenly, as he was consumed by his own demons, his heavy metal door burst open, revealing one of the goddamn men in white, no doubt coming to silence his screams. When his eyes lifted to meet the man's, that was when he snapped. Before he knew what was happening, his feet carried him toward the figure, nerves on fire with rage and skin set ablaze with adrenaline.

The man looked surprised for the moment he had between Ivan's starting and ending destination. When Ivan reached him, he snapped the man's spine before his hands could even be raised. He laughed, a high-pitched, trembling thing stuck in the back of his throat.

After this, he could barely separate up from down, left from right, the voices from his own, let alone remember what he did. But when the red haze cleared momentarily from his neurons, he saw the man below him, glazed with dark blood, eyes wide and motionless.

**You made him suffer. Wonderful, Ivan. Don't you feel much better now?**

"Better…" He said quietly. "Yes, yes, better, better. He suffered. He know how I feel how I suffered how I…" He trailed off, his voice a babbling, stumbling mess. "It is good to see pain, da?" He laughed again, quietly and crazily.

The voices didn't respond this time.

As he stayed there, straddling the dead man's waist, he finally connected that the voices had calmed. How... They were never quiet. Then he understood. His blank eyes finally registered the sharp pain in his wrist, along with the needle attached to it.

"Oh…" Ivan murmured. "Oh."

_There, now you can die like the maniac you are._

**You don't even deserve a burial.**

Perhaps he didn't. No one would come anyway. Not his family, not his old 'friends', and certainly not the staff who he had fought tooth and nail since he was placed here. Maybe he would be buried in the snow. At least that way, he would get to see a world outside of those four slits in his window. He would join that pale world; skin eventually crumbling away and leaving his frozen pale bones in his place. He would only become part of the empty landscape that he so despised.

* * *

The winter was the only parent that Russia had never known. It was always there, always present, and always watching over him. Although its presence was a constant in Russia's life, he wanted more. He wanted to see the sprawling fields of sunflowers that he had heard about from passing traders. They were becoming few and far between, those traders with the stories. They didn't like him much anymore. Perhaps it was the way he had laughed so much when he had killed his last king. Russia had thought that it was very ridiculous and oh-so-wonderful looking, to have blood blossom on the snow under his dead monarch. Oh well, death was a fool to him, and only deserved his quiet laughter.

* * *

**_Note: I do not have, nor have I ever known, someone with schizophrenia. Depression, I know how to write, but I'm really not sure with this. This is supposed to be exaggerated, but if something here is wrong, PLEASE tell me. I don't want to offend anyone, or just have grossly inaccurate information._**

**_Anyway, please review!_**


	7. Matthew- Akin to Their Wallpaper

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_I actually updated on time this week! I will be desperately trying to keep up that trend in the future. However, right now, it is even rather hard for me to get out of bed, so I'm afraid that I cannot make any concrete promises._**

**_Now, Matthew, our dear Canada, was a victim of child neglect and died of starvation, which explains why he is never noticed._**

* * *

Matthew hadn't always been such a lonely child. He found memories, tucked in the deepest recesses of his mind, of when he was happy. His favorite memory was of the first time that he went to the polar bear exhibit at the Toronto Zoo. The mama and the papa had just had a polar bear cub, and he was so unsure of his footing. He would wobble every now and then, stumbling in between his mother's legs. He remembered being in awe of such a large animal with such bright white fur. He loved their black noses and, no matter how fierce they appeared, they would always coddle their young and guide them across the exhibit, nudging them along with those same noses.

It was his favorite memory because it was his first time really seeing the world. Until that point, he was so young that Matthew's world had consisted of his little house in the Canadian countryside, the deep winter snows and his parents' faces. When his papa had taken him to the Toronto Zoo, he had been overwhelmed at the sheer size of not on the zoo itself, but the massive city around it. He had been overcome with the number and variety of strange and wonderful creatures that were all crowded into one area. He missed that feeling, being completely and wonderfully overwhelmed with awe.

Nowadays, it was rare for him to see anything aside from what was contained inside the walls of his house. Not even the blinds were open to offer him a view of a backyard or the backs and sides of the other homes around them. Mama and papa never opened them anymore. He didn't know why, but he was scared that they would beat him if he did anything on his own.

You see, their marriage, once full of happy looks and stolen kisses, had turned to sour expressions and angry screaming matches over the past couple of months. Matthew wasn't sure what had happened, adults were complicated and strange, but he understood that I was far from good. It had started out with papa sleeping in the spare guest room on the second floor, separated from Matthew's bedroom by just the bathroom. After that, it had turned into more and more disagreements, which led to papa disappearing for long stretches of time and mama always drinking an amber colored liquid that made her fall asleep. When papa would come home, he would get mad at mama for whatever she did, and they would start fighting again. Then the whole process would repeat again.

As their arguments got even worse, they would start to become physical with each other, and not in the way that people were supposed to, with holding hands and arms around waists. They would hit each other. Mama would kick papa's shins, and he would grab her hair and pull it until she started screaming. Whenever these fights happened, Matthew hid himself away in his room.

That's where he was now, barricaded behind a measly wooden door, it doing absolutely nothing to block out the shouts and the feeling of seething anger emanating from the room not far down the hall. It scared Matthew, but there was nothing he could do to stop his parents from fighting. He had tried once, and he had received the angry, stinging slash of a belt across his cheek. He had not tried since. But now, it was especially tempting. Neither of his parents had come to check on him in almost two weeks, and that time span was starting to seem more and more unbearably long. Matthew was able to reach the tap in his bathroom for nice cold water, but it was the hunger that was starting to get to him.

He had a box of granola bars in his backpack, but those vanished about two days in. Matthew was very very hungry. Right now, his stomach felt as though it was twisting upon itself, gnawing at its own walls, desperate to be filled with something besides water. It had already eaten some of the cushiony bits on his legs and torso, but it still wanted more. But Matthew could not go into the kitchen, for fear of upsetting his parents. And even if he did, he was not tall enough to reach the handle of the refrigerator, nor could he even touch the countertop.

He hoped his parents would stop fighting soon.

For now, all he could do was sit, curled up against his bedroom wall, and wait. He had been waiting for so long, and he had passed the time through various means. He read the couple of books in his room, he cleaned out the space under his bed, but he spent most of his time sleeping. His slumbers were becoming longer and longer, but no matter how much he slept, his body still demanded more. He felt so tired… His eyes drooped at the thought of sleep. _Maybe another couple of hours wouldn't hurt…_

As Matthew began to close his eyes, a loud crash jolted him out of his reverie. It sounded very much like the slam of the heavy wooden front door. Had mama or papa left? His curiousity peaked, and he leaned his ear near the door.

"Goddamit. Fucking bitch." He heard papa yelling at the walls. It must have been mama who left.

He heard papa's angry footsteps stomp down the hall, through the guest bedroom, and into the bathroom that he shared with Matthew. Matthew tentatively approached the door, hearing the sound of running water.

He cracked open the door timidly. "Papa?" He asked quietly.

His father did not respond, instead proceeding to wash his face with cold water.

"Papa?" He tried again. To no avail. Matthew cast his eyes downward, and softy closed the door, filled with an emotion his childish mind could not quite comprehend.

_Was it his fault that papa and mama fought all of the time?_ The thought had been bouncing around in Matthew's head for about a week now. He always tried so hard to be well behaved and kind, so that he would make his parents proud, but maybe he hadn't been doing it right. Maybe he had only been making them angry. Matthew sat down on the floor again, curled his knees up to his chest, and buried his head between them. Then, for a reason he could not understand, he began to cry. They were soft, muffled sounds that barely reached outside of a meter radius. Soon, Matthew felt his kneecaps growing wet with salt water.

He kept on like that for some time, perhaps ten minutes, perhaps ten hours. Matthew could not tell.

He did not look at the clock.

When he felt his tears dry, his body was filled with a vast emptiness, comparable to what he felt in his stomach. His eyes were blank, and he stared at a small stain in the carpet in between the toes of his shoes. He remembered making it; he had dropped a marker one day while coloring. He had covered it up with a pair of socks in the months since.

He no longer heard papa in the bathroom. There was not running water, or angry footsteps, or the sound of angry telephone calls. The house was silent. _Did papa leave me too?_ He asked himself. He had that same feeling as earlier, accept that he could not will his tear ducts to send any more water down his cheeks.

After about two hours, Matthew decided that his father had, in fact, left. Matthew had no idea when he would come back, or if he would come back at all. When he and mama fought, sometimes he would not come back for weeks. Would mama even come back? Matthew was not sure about that either.

He felt thirsty, and he had the desire to go and get some water from the bathroom, but the muscles in his legs refused to move, full of stiffness and too weak to support Matthew's weight. So he stayed pressed against the wall, back resting against the green and white striped wallpaper. He stayed like that for a very long time.

But eventually, he felt the overwhelming desire to sleep. It wasn't like the other urges for rest before; this one was almost desperate. He needed to close his eyes for a very long time. His body told him that, and he was willing to comply. When he was dragged into the soothing darkness, the last thing he thought was that all of this was entirely his fault.

He never woke up.

* * *

Canada had never been very visible. He was always one to blend into a crowd, lost easily amongst the sea of people. Whenever people did see him, he was almost always mistaken for his fully visible, very noticeable brother, who had an incredibly commanding presence. No one ever really saw Canada, but he was all right with that. His brother got so much attention, that he never even once envied his solitude.

* * *

**_Well, there you go._**

**_Reviews amuse me._**


	8. Ludwig- The White Haired Man

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_On time again! I am rather proud of myself._**

**_Now that the Allies have been covered, here begins the Axis. First, of course, is Ludwig, who was a victim of memory loss and died in a coma (This explains the whole Holy Rome being Germany thing, not really an aspect of Germany's personality. So, although it's not really about the Germany we know, I still like this one a lot)._**

* * *

It didn't quite feel like an impact, at least not to him. He remembered the sound, the distinct crunching of metal as it folded in on itself and broke apart. He remembered the cascade of sharp glass pieces, their edges gleaming in the pale streetlight, letting loose an ear-splitting scream as they broke apart, before finally falling with the melody of a thousand tiny bells. He remembered the force traveling through his body but, for the life of him, he could no remember an impact. He was peacefully driving along the road and then, suddenly, everything was different.

Now, you see, that event was the confine of his memory. He could remember being pulled from inside of the scrunched metal heap, going to the hospital, being bandaged up, and given painkillers that managed to give him the sweet release of sleep for several hours. But, unfortunately, along with the effects of the painkillers, his former memories were gone.

Whatever hospital he was sitting in, baffled by his lack of memory, it reeked of antiseptic. It was as though every surface was infused with the vile stuff. It almost made Ludwig gag when he first woke up, although his nostrils stung a lot less now. Along with the strong scent of alcohol, and not the pleasure-inducing kind, was the presence of the color white. It was everywhere. White walls, white sheets, white hospital gown. It seemed as though the entire building had been bleached, stripped of color so much that it seemed the physical embodiment of the color white.

Suddenly, his door opened, revealing yet more white. Except this man wasn't a doctor like the other visitors he'd received in the past several hours. His hair matched the rest of the room, and his skin was damn close to doing so as well, but his eyes were a shock of red that practically glowed in the fluorescent light. He hastily pulled up a plastic chair, metal feet scraping harshly against the floor. He rested his hands on the bedspread and looked between them and Ludwig.

As they sat in silence for a moment, Ludwig realized that the man was trembling, his hands quivering as he desperately clutched at the pristine white hospital bed sheets beside Ludwig's left hand. Ludwig couldn't quite understand why this man was so upset over him. As far as Ludwig could tell, neither of them had met before.

"When they told me about what happened, I kind of imagined the worst scenario, you know? They say that's kinda what you're supposed to do, though." He paused for a moment. "So I cam rushing over here. Probably almost killed a couple 'a people. I know it was reckless, and you always tell me not to do that sort of thing. I really am sorry, but I think you understand, right Ludwig?" He finished, smiling timidly and scratching the back of his neck, as if he was nervous.

"I-I'm sorry, but do I know you? I can't place your face." Ludwig responded quietly.

The man's face instantly fell, as if he had just received a terminal diagnosis. He looked at Ludwig, eyes wide and wild with fear and disbelief and something he couldn't quite place.

"What do you mean you can't place my face?" He leaned away from Ludwig, the shaking that was earlier controlled was now seizing the white-haired man's frame.

"I'm sorry, but I-"

"No. Don't finish. Just don't, Ludwig." He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over the white plastic chair. He backed away, and just before he turned toward the door, Ludwig saw the tears heavy in his eyes.

Who was he? Ludwig realized that he must have been someone very close to him, someone dear to him, so why, for the love of God, could he not remember? It made his own eyes sting at the thought.

He spent the next couple of hours desperately searching for some scrap of memory about the white-haired man. He wanted to bang his bandaged head against the wall, finding absolutely nothing. A brother, a lover, a dear friend? Who the hell was he?

When the doctor came in to check more of his vital signs, Ludwig asked him about the man. The doctor failed to give him a straight answer, only saying that it was a 'discussion for another time, a time when he was better'. Ludwig didn't accept it, but did not want to push the doctor any more. It was late, and the poor man was tired and overworked.

As the days wore on, Ludwig thought less of the white-haired man. Although he was always in the back of his mind, he knew that he wouldn't be able to remember whatever he was to him, so he tried to focus on other things. He tried to think of what he knew about himself. He knew his name was Ludwig, he had blond hair and blue eyes, he lived in Berlin and he had an old scar across his abdomen. He knew that he had an affinity for large dogs, thought of alcohol often and had an urge to wear something nicer than a hospital gown. That was it. Nothing else came to him.

He was doing okay, hanging in that perpetual state of not knowing, when things suddenly took a turn for the worst. It started one night when he felt a sharp pain in his stomach, and he heard some of the monitors hooked up to him beep rather loudly. Doctors rushed in, told him that they were given him anesthesia, and moved him to another room before his vision blurred and blackened.

The next time he woke up, he could barely life his eyelids, but he could see that the white-haired man was there again, looking haggard and empty, as if he had not slept for days. He was desperately muttering something under his breath that vaguely sounded like a prayer. As much as he tried, Ludwig could not summon the energy to open his mouth, so his eyes moved to look at him more. The red in the man's eyes was considerably duller now, more of a maroon than the brilliant, almost crimson color he had seen last time. They were familiarly warm, but Ludwig still could not remember.

That was the last that he saw of the white-haired man. Soon after that brief moment of consciousness, Ludwig closed his eyes for a considerable amount of time. He would feel flashes of pain, but could not will himself to wake. His eyelids swirled with dreams of the unknown. He received small tidbits of his former life, of paperwork and a smiling friend of his, of a family member who's face he could not see and the smell of ink on paper. He could smell various baked goods and fresh grass in the wind swirling past his face. It felt so pleasant, so wonderful, but it was fragmented, choppy and inconsistent.

Then the tidbits turned sour, become more nightmares than pleasant dreams. He dreamt of war, of the sound of guns going off near his ear, of metal clashing and smoke-filled skies. Had he been a soldier? Had he killed other people, extinguished other lives? It was all so uncertain, and he could hardy bear it. If only he could wake up again, see that man again and ask him who he was and who Ludwig was.

And yet his eyes remained closed.

One day, he thought he heard the white-haired man. Although Ludwig felt asleep, he could still hear it. He was sitting off to his left, shifting in whatever chair he was sitting in.

"Hey, Ludwig, you have to come back, okay? You promised that we would go up to see that castle in the countryside way to the north, right? You're a man of your word, so you can't just leave me here."

There was quiet for many long moments.

"It's me, Gilbert." His voice was so much softer now, gentle and almost raspy, as if he had been screaming or crying. "I'm your older brother, right? And I'm supposed to look after you, make sure you're safe. I broke that promise, Ludwig. I let something bad happen to you, and there's nothing that I can do now. I-" His voice cracked. "I'm sorry, Ludwig. Just, please. Please come back. You mean the world to me."

And that was it. The last word that the white-haired man, his older brother Gilbert, spoke to him. Ludwig could feel his presence there for an indeterminate amount of time. It was hours upon hours. Eventually, he stood up, pressed his lips to Ludwig's forehead, and softly left the room, footsteps heavy and lagging.

Ludwig wanted to wake up. He wanted to see his brother again, to remember what his life had been. He desperately wanted to, but he just couldn't.

He couldn't stand it, being trapped in this in-between. He could hear his brother and smell the antiseptic, but he could not as much move a finger or open his lips. He was stuck where he was, but even that felt as though he was fading.

And he hated it.

* * *

Germany couldn't remember anything from before a certain point in his life. He remembered turning seventeen chronologically, but that was the earliest thing he could find in his mind. He asked Prussia about it sometimes, probing him very often when they were younger, but Prussia claimed to know nothing. His line was always; 'I found ya in the woods, how in the hell should I know?'. But Germany knew that his so-called older brother knew of his previous memories, but just far too afraid to tell.

* * *

**_Well, what did you think? Please review!_**

**_Also, I don't typically self-advertise, but I just made a tumblr for my writing. My URL is below. I'll be posting little updates on this story, previews of this and others and also other writing and whatever might be going on in my life. I'll answer questions too, or talk to you guys, or write something for you if you ask. Really anything. If you have a tumblr, would you mind following me? I would really appreciate it!_**

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	9. Feliciano- Another To The Multitude

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_I took a break for the holidays, but here's the next chapter, as promised._**

**_Now we have our beloved Feliciano, who struggled with depression and, after hiding it for a long time, finally committed suicide. This explains his undying happiness in his life as Northern Italy._**

* * *

"Ah, alright. See you tomorrow!" Feliciano smiled brightly, waving to his friend as he watched his figure run down the narrow cobblestone street toward his own home several blocks away.

Feliciano lowered his hand, as well as the corners of his mouth and turned on his heel, beginning his own walk back home. He lived at the very end of the long, winding street, one side of his house facing in, and the other facing Milan's Naviglio Grande. In fact, his room had a decent view of when the occasional boat would pass, cutting through the sparkling water.

He took his time walking. It wasn't as if anyone was anxiously awaiting his return. His mother, whom he had loved dearly and was quite similar to, had died about three years ago, not like he was counting. His father was still alive, but never around. He was always traveling for business, and had not been home in months. Perhaps he ran from his sadness or perhaps he just was very passionate about international patent law. No matter, Feliciano would come home again to an empty house.

When he finally reached the steps of his ochre-yellow home with the faded dark green door and its peeling paint, he breathed a sigh of relief. When he was at home, he didn't have to pretend that he was the perfectly fine, happy adolescent he portrayed to the rest of the world. The truth was, shortly after his mother's death, Feliciano had fallen into a deep depression that he just couldn't quiet escape.

His country, especially Venice, was known for their fine Carnevale masks, intricately crafted from porcelain or paper mache and covered with delicate laces or smooth velvets and golden aureate. Although his wasn't as beautiful, Feliciano wore a similar mask every day. It was one covered with wide smiles along with glimmering teeth and eyes lit ablaze with unbridled joy. Feliciano was naturally good at acting, and wore that mask well. After the initial comfort received from his friends after his mother's death, no one even bothered to worry about him. He always seemed happy and, to say the least, 'over it'. But he had never managed to leave behind that bright spring day three years ago when his mother had finally breathed her last.

Before that terrible day, Feliciano had been truly happy. Good god, he could rarely stop smiling. Whenever he walked into his primary school classroom, everyone seemed to be happier with that smiling little boy around. And that was what he had loved about himself. "Your smiles are the best, my dear Feliciano." His mother would say. "They're just simply contagious." So, after the time came when his reason for smiling was gone, he couldn't just stop. His whole life, he had made people happy, and he could not stop without arousing suspicion and possibly malice. So he continued on smiling.

But, truly, he felt far from happy. He felt empty and somehow not whole. Whenever his alarm went off in the morning, he was overwhelmed with dysania and found it terribly difficult to rise from the sheets of his bed. Whenever he arrived at the school gates and was confronted with people, he never wanted to socialize. It had become more and more difficult for him to talk to people. With the various girlfriends, and even boyfriends, he'd had over the past few years, he could no longer feel comfortable with anyone. And despite being surrounded by friends and peers who seemed to enjoy his company, he still felt so terribly lonely.

That was one reason why he hated coming home to an empty house. As he closed the door behind him, he looked out to the living room, couch cushions undoubtedly cold and lamps dark. It was filled with his mother's furniture, but there was no one there to inhabit it. The chairs were barren, most silverware, save for two forks, a knife and spoon were left unused in the cabinets, towels rarely needed to be washed and plants would be left for dead. It was so devoid of life, and that was the complete opposite of what his mother had meant for this home. Feliciano desperately wanted to make this place lively and warm again, as his mother had, but he could barely function, let alone take care of a house.

He sighed and flung his bag on a bench in the hallway underneath a pretty structural arch before reaching his bedroom. He passed through the thick stone frame and closed the heavy oaken door behind him. He sat down on his bed, staring at the tiles between his shoes. In all of the time since his mother had died, one could say that he hadn't felt right. He felt distant and awkward and not quite himself. It was troubling and at the same time expected. Feliciano did not know what to think himself. Things he used to take great pleasure in lost their luster, things he purely loathed were now only viewed with indifference. He used to go out of his way when he went to the market to say hello to an old woman who always sold delicious pears, but he had not spoken to her for these past few years. He used to always make pastries for his whole class when Christmas arrived, but he hadn't baked for pleasure or gift-giving in those past few years either.

After the initial unsettling realization of that feeling of 'being off', Feliciano had become insouciant to it. According to the books at the library, that was normal for people with depression, and it was quite overt that's what he had.

Feliciano sat on his bed for a few more hours until the sun began to near the fringe of the Milan skyline. When he looked at his watch and realized what time it was, he decided that he should at least eat something. He slowly made his way to the kitchen, his socks sliding silently on the ceramic floor. When had he taken off his shoes? He let it go. His memory had not been the greatest lately either.

When he entered the small kitchen, he decided that he didn't want much, and reached for a box of crackers in one of the cabinets. He busied himself with trying to open the new box, struggling quite a bit with some tricky plastic wrap. He opened another cupboard to grab the scissors and successfully cut open the frustrating bag inside of the box. He threw away the clear top he had cut off and went to put the scissors back. Then something caught his eye. Feliciano found himself to be a victim of frequent headaches, so he always had a supply of brufen on hand. There was a brand new bottle of it sitting in the cabinet, right next to where he kept the scissors.

He wasn't sure what it was, but something made his gaze remain fixed on the bottle of painkillers. He felt his arms go limp as he continued to examine the pills sitting in his cabinet. For some reason he seemed drawn to it today.

It hadn't been the first time something like this had entered his mind. His balcony was high enough up that he could jump and end things quickly enough. He had nice, sharp kitchen knives and plenty of razor blades. He'd been using those same blades to cut himself for about two years now. That had started after the first year anniversary of his mother's death. On that day, everything came crashing down on him; the realization, the reality of it all. Suddenly desperate to divert his own pain, he had grabbed for the sharp, unserrated knife on the cutting board and, well, the rest was quite obvious.

But he had never gone farther than nonfatal wounds. He had performed thought experiments on the notion, but had never actually executed it. For some reason, today he felt the need to do just that. He wasn't sure why today was so compelling to him. Perhaps he was tired living the way he was; alone, fake and with what seemed like the weight of the world on his shoulders. Most days, it seemed that Atlas had gotten tired and had given the sky for Feliciano to carry. He was tired of feeling empty and not right and just _sad._

Feliciano grabbed for the bottle and unscrewed the cap. He poured the pills out on the counter and counted every single one. 34. He decided that he would make it his mission to line them all up and take them one by one. He went a got a bottle of water from the fridge and started, feeling no fear. He counted as he swallowed them.

_1, 2… 7…9…14…19…_

Feliciano ran out of water. He continued to swallow them dry, a skill gained over getting migraines at times when he couldn't get water.

_20…22…25…29…_

He was almost there now. There were only a couple of the pills left on the countertop, made of a beautiful smooth marble which was rumored to have been taken from the Milan Amphitheatre. His mother had brought it home excitedly one day (followed by a contractor carrying the heavy stone of course).

_30, 31, 32, 33, 34._

That was it. He was done. All of the little capsules were gone. He smiled softly and sadly to himself. He decided that before the repercussions of the overdose, including his untimely death, took effect, he should maybe right a note for his father or his friends, explaining something.

He went back to his room and pulled out some old stationary of his mother's. He had liked the almost psychedelic earth tone patterns in the marbled paper, so she had given it to him when he was probably about five.

He grabbed a fountain pen of his and tried to write something. He thought of all of the poetic lines he could throw in. From Alighieri to Petrarch to Michelangelo to Mameli, he could have written a lot. He could have written an honest and messy confession of how he had been silently fighting with the beast of a disease known as depression for the past three years. He had always been a talented writer, but nothing came to him. Instead, he scrawled two solitary words in careful and elegant cursive that could only come from his hand;

_I'm sorry._

He set the pen down and laid the piece of paper gently on his nightstand. He sat down on the floor, back against his bed and closed his eyes, prepared for the fatigue and nausea he knew he would be feeling soon.

He began humming a gentle song to himself, an old lullaby from when he was a child. His mother had sung other, far more ancient lullabies than this one, but he liked this one the most.

_Fai la nanna principino,_

_Fai la nana cuorcino,_

_Dormi bene nel lettino_

_Che la mamma e' qui vicino,_

The words were nothing special, but it was very beautiful and the tune was one Feliciano could always carry, even as his vocal chords protested, tears closing his esophagus.

_Chiudi gli occhi dormi tanto,_

_E vedral tuto e' un incanto_

Yes, he would love to sleep for a very long time. And when he did, he was sure everything would be enchanting. He would see mama again, and he would be free of the terrible burdens he carried.

_Rossso, yerdre, azzurro et oro,_

_Son plu' belli, mon Tesoro_

_Viola, arpa e mandolino:_

_Tutto e' suono per il mio bambino_

When his mother sang that verse, he knew that she meant every bit of it. He wanted him to be safe and loved and she wanted everything for him. Every pretty song, every kiss. She cared for him so much.

As he finished humming that verse, he began to feel terribly light-headed and fatigued. It smashed into him almost as hard as the emptiness had, but he welcomed this with much more open arms. He had felt a pang of regret and guilt when he had swallowed the eighteenth pill, but he felt none now. He was happy with his decision.

Feliciano believed in other lives. Maybe in his next life, he would be happy.

* * *

Italy was in a constant state of elation. He always tried to hard to make others happy, and typically succeeded. His smiles and laughs were so contagious and sweet. One could not help but feel a bit of happiness peak through when one saw that face. Especially Germany. That idiotic nation was probably the only reason the stern country, and his ally, had opened himself to give those small smiles.

* * *

**_I know Rome would have been the expected setting, but I picked Milan because my mother use to live there and I know way too much about t._**

**_By the way, brufen is the Italian generic name for ibuprofen (Advil/Aleve/ Motrin/et cetera)._**

**_Also, I hope you recognize the quote that is the chapter name…_**

**_This chapter was a tad hard for me to write because I ended up drawing from a lot of personal expriences._**

**_Anyway, I hope that you liked this one! Since the holidays are over, I'll be back on normal schedule._**

**_Please review!_**

**_My tumblr url (since people had trouble viewing it): onebillion-stars_**

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	10. Romano- Gone Without Saying Hello

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_Japan was supposed to be next, but I decided to go ahead and write Romano's chapter because I kept getting requests to run them together and since they are both technically 'Italy', it actually works. Romano was Feliciano's stillborn twin, which explains why he (a) is not thought of as 'Italy' and (b) why he has so much hatred for his brother._**

* * *

Good god she was tired.

It had been eight long and pain-hazed hours since she had arrived at the hospital, frantic and, to be honest, quite terrified. She had driven herself, as her husband was out of town on business. The moment she was a block away from her home did she realize she most certainly should have taken a taxi. She had made her way through the Milano traffic, contractions starting, and had somehow managed to not only keep herself together, but also did not crash into any other vehicles.

She thought that that ordeal was enough for the day, but the two small children inside of her begged to differ. The moment she had tumbled through the hospital door, the pain in her lower body persisted with aggression, seeming to tear through her. Nurses had immediately dragged her back to a sterile room where she quickly changed into an itchy paper gown that barely covered her bulging belly.

A nice-looking doctor with slicked-back dark hair had briefly popped into the room.

"How much pain are you in?" He had asked.

She hadn't replied with more than an agony-induced moan and the doctor had taken that as a rather fit response.

He had measured her flittering heartbeat as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed and had checked her rampantly high blood pressure as well.

He had tried his best to calm her down. He explained in a soothing and steady voice what she would be going through for the next indeterminable period of time. He described how the contractions would gradually get closer and closer together and how her body would smoothly handle the entire process. The only downside was that it was, of course, rather painful.

Out of desperation, she had asked if there was some sort of anesthesia that they could give her to send her into blissful unconsciousness or at least numb the acute agony originating from her lower body.

Thankfully, he answered with a yes. She had fervently demanded it, not caring if it was administered through a gas mask or a needle, both of which she adamantly feared, but the ideas of which she loved at the moment.

He left, telling her that the anesthesia would be administered as soon as she came close enough to going into labor. Now she was alone again in the room, and the antiseptic smell wasn't as strong now that her nose had become used to the sharp scent.

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and listened to the noisy Milano street life playing out underneath her window, trying to distract herself. Then, the pain started again, worse than before.

Nurses almost immediately hurried into the room again, slipping a small needle underneath the small of her back, allowing her to feel a welcomed rush of relief as the numbing agent ran through her veins.

She couldn't quite describe the next eight hours. They felt numb and painful, dragging yet blindingly fast, feverish and chill-inducing. But at the end of it all, she felt the greatest sense of relief that she had felt in a terribly long time. As she lay there in the hospital, curly brown locks plastered to her olive-toned skin, it felt good to be able to relax. Her body felt heavy, and she almost thought that the mattress would swallow here whole.

In her daze, she didn't quite realize what was wrong. She didn't realize that she was alone in the room for several minutes, and she didn't realize the presence of an abundance of silence.

The stiff air was broken by the small, gentle cries of a child. When she opened her tired eyes, the lids trying to drag themselves back down, she saw a nurse in front of her holding a bundle of cream blankets. At the very top, a pale face with a dab of brown curly hair so much like her own shown through, eyes screwed shut.

The nurse wordlessly handed her the small boy. She took him and held him tightly, her hand finding its proper place underneath his small head. Now the baby seemed to have calmed down, his cries softening and his face relaxing. She watched as he opened his eyes, which were colored a beautiful amber hue so much like his father's. The tiny child stared up at her, a look that could be interpreted as peace passing over his face, as if her pale, sweat-coated face brought him comfort.

"Hello." She smiled tiredly, but lovingly, down at her new son. "I think that you'll be Feliciano. Feliciano Vargas. You look so much like your mama, you know."

Feliciano reached up a tiny fist and grabbed at the air, his minute fingers clutching for something not there. She smiled and let him grab one of her fingers, so much larger than his.

She paused, halfway between overwhelming happiness and awareness. "Where's his brother?" She asked. Since her first ultrasound, she knew that she would have two sons to call her own. Why did they only bring out one?

"Ms. Vargas, I-" The nurse started, but was unable to finish, as the doctor opened the door somewhat forcefully.

"Maria, could you please leave Ms. Vargas and I alone for a minute?" He sounded exhausted, as if he was carrying a considerable amount of weight on his shoulders. The pigment underneath his eyes was dark, dying his skin in shadow. The little wrinkles she had noticed when she had first met him were scrunched together.

"Feliciano was his name, you said?" He asked, taking a peak at the boy in her arms.

"Yes. I think that I'll name his brother Romano. It's similar to my father's name. What do you think?"

"Ms. Vargas. There's something I need to tell you and believe me when I say that I am truly sorry."

Still somewhat inebriated from the drugs, she did not quite grasp the meaning. "What's going on?"

"The other child," He paused. "Romano." A strange look came over his face. "He was stillborn. We tried everything we could, but he was already gone. I'm so sorry."

She didn't respond for a moment, only clutching Feliciano closer to her chest in an unintentional protective movement. "Gone?" I…" She trailed off, a dazed look glossing over her eyes.

"This is never easy, Ms. Vargas. It's too cruel to happen to anyone, but we can't negotiate with Mother Nature." He reached out a tentative hand to grasp her arm in support.

She didn't really feel it, his touch. She felt a sudden sort of emptiness, which threatened to entirely swallow that previous feeling of elation when they had given her Feliciano. She didn't quite know how to feel. Devastated? Angry? Happy that at least one of her sons was alive? All of those conflicting emotions ran into at once, like multiple waves being funneled into one small, abused beach.

"Can you- can you please leave? I need to be alone right now." She left no room in the question for defiance on his part. He was going to leave and let her grieve in silence.

"Of course. If you need me, or any of the nurses, please feel free to call out." He stood up and left, pushing back his hair with his hand, a gesture that typically meant discomfort or exhaustion for most men she knew.

Now the silence enveloped her like a warm blanket, pressing into her at all sides. She closed her eyes and clutched Feliciano closer yet. She felt about ready to cry, but something inside of her refused to, as if some ignorant portion of her mind was denying everything. And spilling tears would only make it that much more real.

"I'm sorry that you don't have your brother here, dear Feli. I hope that you can forgive me." She shifted the baby in her arms so that he would be more comfortable. His eyes were already closing, easing him into a quick and thick sleep.

She sat there and watched his tiny chest rise and fall, glad that at least one of her sons had breath in his body.

She had prepared herself to love two people and, since she was only graced with one in the end, she would focus all of that affection on him. Feliciano would never be sad, never feel alone. She decided that right then, steadfast in her determination. She would always be there for her only son.

* * *

"Italy!" Romano heard a voice behind him. It sounded like that terrifying man known as Russia.

Romano whipped around so that he faced the towering man. "If you dare mistake him for me _one more time_ I swear to God that I will bring you to your knees."

"Oh, I'm sorry Romano. Do you know where you brother is by any chance, then?" His voice was more sickly sweet than cough syrup.

"Ch. Who cares?" He walked away, his footsteps forcing themselves heavily into the carpeted hallway.

_It's always about him. Why do they all like my idiot fratello so much? He's just like me, so why don't they ever talk to 'Romano'? I'm not even really 'Italy' anymore. Damn him._

**_Well, there you go. I will update on time this week. Promise._**

**_Thank you for the kind reviews! I read each and every one!_**

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	11. Kiku- From Which We Gather No Flowers

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_I'll be moving my commentary to the bottom._**

**_Now we have Japan who, trapped in an unhappy arranged marriage, commits seppuku. This partly explains his quiet, introverted demeanor, not wanting to get involved with others._**

* * *

It was 'what was best'.

Best for what? For who? For the family, for their status. Not for his bride, and certainly not for him.

Asami was a beautiful girl. She had snow-pale skin that seemed to be made of porcelain, smooth under his fingers, and cold. She was always cold, despite her warm spirit. Her lips were the color of the pink flowers on sakura trees, and the corners were always lifted in a soft, sweet smile. She had beautiful dark eyes that stood out on her pale skin. They were flecked with a lighter brown that made them akin to the smooth dark wood in their new home. They shone in the warm light of dusk like embers. Her hair was a silky blue-black, glistening in the pale morning light, framing her graceful face with beautiful contrast.

She was so kind, and so gentle. Her patience far outmatched his and every action done with her slender fingers was elegant and precise, from draping fabric to laying out dishes. She moved with a sense of purpose and an effortless grace, her vestments swaying around her slim figure, lying against the curve of her hips and her waist.

She was quiet and demure, but an atmosphere of calm always surrounded her. Whenever he sat down to dinner with her, he immediately felt the stress leave his limbs and he would show a rare smile back at her.

Asami was beautiful, kind, and capable. She was what would be considered a perfect wife. After their engagement was announced, despite the two being complete strangers to each other, he was always told by acquaintances that he was a 'lucky man'.

The thing that he hated about it all was that, despite being married to the 'perfect wife', it never felt right to him. Before the day prior to their wedding, they had never actually met. He had been told copious amounts about her, as she had been told of him, but neither of them had met, neither knew the other. Neither was ready for something as intimate as a marriage. They were expected to love each other, to have a family and be a representation of wedded bliss. How could they when they only knew their names?

Although a picturesque life, it was not a happy one, at least not for him. He was not happy, knowing that not only was he being denied the opportunity to find someone who loved him, but that Asami was as well. In this life of his, he felt… uncomfortable. It was as though there was a constant itch on the back of his neck that ate away at his skin, or the scrape of a too-tight shoe rubbing his heel raw to the point of bleeding. Some days, he almost felt that there was so much pressure in his head that his skull would crack.

It was forbidden for them to part, despite how much they may have wanted to. They were bound together, for better or for worse, although they seemed to be leaning towards 'worst'. He had to find a way to break the ties that bound them. And find a way, he did.

For him, it hadn't been a hard decision. He had seen a way out, and he knew that he had to take it. Although some might have considered it on a more extreme end, it was essentially his only option left. He did not want to live a life trapped inside a box, and he did not want poor Asami to be bound to someone who was unhappy.

He'd had the ceremonial dagger for some time, since he'd first begun training with swords as a child. The faintly curved blade had a smooth bamboo hilt and casing, embossed with several characters and bearing two tiny red tassels on the butt of the weapon. It had been bound to his waist for many years now, always neglected, and rightfully so. With no cause for dishonor, the blade was never meant to see daylight.

But now, the shining metal would finally have use.

His culture was a strict one. It was based entirely on how you or, more importantly, your family, were perceived by society. It was a constant act, a constant façade that took a great deal of effort to keep standing, but took barely a move to crumble. The entire hierarchy that he was uncomfortably shoved into was based upon those appearances. If you were the one who crumbled that image, you would be disgraced with a debt that could only be repaid through your own death.

Yes, suicide was his only option. Unfortunately, he had been put in a position where that debt had fallen upon his own shoulders. His family, nor Asami's, would likely understand his reason for committing seppuku. However, Asami would understand. Behind her gentle smiles and kind eyes was a glint of dull hopelessness.

She was not happy either.

Kiku was resolute. He would take his own life not only for himself, or family's honor, but for Asami as well. Despite not loving her, he hated to see such a kind woman, such a kind _girl_, with that variety of sadness behind her soft features.

It had been a little longer than one month since Kiku had made his decision, and the time for him to follow through with that choice was drawing close. For the past several weeks, he had been working to get his affairs in order, to separate himself from his family, and Asami. All of those formalities were not the hard part. The hardest part would be physically detaching from the world. He would no longer see trees blooming with color, or hear the soft whispering of the small stream outside of his home. His eyes would never grace the sea again, never seeing the bubbling and crashing foam, its destruction and its beauty.

He supposed that he would miss that; seeing what the world had to offer. He had always wanted to travel, but had never the largest island of Japan. He had always wanted to meet new sorts of people and hear stories from foreign lands, but his ears would be unable to listen soon.

That would all be a loss, but far from a terrible one. He was not the only son, not the oldest son, in his family, so the grieving would not last long. That almost brought a pang of pain to his heart whenever it came to mind, his chest tightening out of reflex. But the structure of his society would not be changed, no matter how much he willed it. He would have to learn to accept it before the end.

Ah yes, the end. It was coming now. He had made his peace, and sat perched on the stones in his garden. He had decided that the final vision he wished to grace his empty eyes would be the gently swaying bed of chrysanthemums underneath the towering maple trees behind his home. Its beauty had always been something he had enjoyed.

That beauty seemed sad now somehow.

It was a somewhat ironic place, and he understood that. He was about to take the one beautiful place he knew here, and stain it in an ugly caste of red. Oh well.

His shins were pressed into the smooth gravel underfoot, digging into his skin and pressing harshly against his bones. He found that he didn't seem to mind in the slightest. He would not be feeling it soon anyway.

He stared at the blade he gently cradled in his hands, the sharp metal glinting in the pale morning light that dyed the garden a beautifully warm gray. He glimpsed his reflection in the metal, face lightly decorated with fear, yet eyes holding a quiet sense of relief.

He took one deep breath, eyes focused on the petals in front of him. Then, he felt his hands move, almost unconsciously, as if he was controlled by a puppeteer. The cold blade was pressed up against his abdomen, the cutting edge at a decent angle that would split skin. He remained focused on the garden, applying more pressure with the knife gradually. He felt the first layer or two of skin tear, but his pounding heart and trembling limbs prevented him from going any further.

His veins were coursing with adrenaline, the signals to his brain spastic. He was frantic. Panicked. Wide-eyed.

Scared.

He tried desperately to swallow that fear, the tension forming a lump in his throat. Why was he afraid of death? He had been told all of his life to not fear the time when his spirit leaves his body. And yet, apprehension still ran through him.

He took another breath, this time closing his eyes. He steadied his hands and, instead of the gradual pressure he had used before, he slashed quickly, blindly. He felt the blade cut him, his nerve ending frenetically protesting, screaming at him. He felt the warmth of blood spread from the laceration, dying his clothes a brilliant, dark red. He suddenly felt slightly lightheaded.

As soon as he had finished one slash, he bit his tongue until his incisors drew pin-pricks of blood, desperately trying to prevent himself from screaming. After that, he began to gnaw at the inside of his cheek, scraping the tissue raw. Now his mouth tasted of blood from two separate incidences of self harm.

He returned his attention to his task, staring at the beautiful plants in front of him. He sat silently for a moment, his shattered nerves ablaze. He felt a small ounce of guilt enter him. This time, he did not try to chase it away, as he always did, but accepted it with open arms. With his open body.

He began the second slash, this time curving his cut upwards. As it approached his rib, he withdrew, heavily placing the dagger down next his left leg. He nearly gasped as he opened another seam in his body.

_ There, the deed is done, _he thought to himself. Now alongside the hot liquid rushing out, a sense of relief and peace was rushing inside in its stead.

Kiku's vision began to blur, his mind sudden feeling lethargic, his senses became numb. All senses save for pain of course, which raged on. His breathing came in quick, breathy gasps, lungs furiously working to keep him alive. _Stop trying, please_, he demanded. He felt his heartbeat in his abdomen, on his fingertips, coursing through his ears, pounding relentlessly fast.

Then, everything began to slow. His body felt confused, shifting from fast to a sudden precipitous drop. His head reeled, and he bent it toward his knees, folding himself in half.

_Everything will be okay now, _he assured himself. _Now Asami can be happy, without a useless, unfit husband like myself._

His world turned gray, the petals lost their painted color, the sky bleaching to match the clouds. The gravel no longer dug into his shins. Everyone would be happy now.

He was no longer sorry.

* * *

Japan had been isolated for a very long time now. The last time he had opened his border, the influx of people, of murders and thieves and merchants and good people, had been too much to bear. To be entirely honest, Japan had never cared for people. They had always scared him, with expectation and the fear of disappointment. He much preferred his own home, and his own people.

Yes, Japan had always preferred solidarity.

* * *

**_I honestly have no more excuses about update times at this point. I guess I'm just sorry. I'm not really doing okay, but I'm trying. Sorry._**

**_Just for the record, this probably took place (in my mind at least) sometime during the Feudal period. The title of the chapter came from a death poem written during the time as well._**

**_Also, I got over two thousand views last chapter? What? I still can't believe it! Thank you guys so much for reading my work for ten whole chapters now!_**

**_Please review?_**

* * *

**tumblr: onebillion-stars**


	12. Gilbert- So Much Owed to So Few

_**All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them. **_

_**The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each.**_

_**Now, we are finishing up the tail end of the main part of the Axis with Prussia.**_

* * *

The air was filled with a haze of gunpowder. It hung, making every breath labored and metal-tinged. It was as though an iron curtain had descended upon the hectic battlefield, obscuring almost all sight. It made it hard for Gilbert to see his hand in front of his face.

It dyed the whites on their uniforms a dusky gray, only the green holding a former hue of itself. His unusually fair hair was the color of ash, and his face was blotted with gray patterns without order. The entire affair was a chaotic blur, the wailing clash of swords and the staccato scream of gunfire stabbing at his eardrums. His heart was in his throat and beat out of time, adrenalin coursing through his every vein.

Around him stood other soldiers, with black banners raised, cries of glory to Prussia united in a broken and scared chorus. Despite the fading scraps of enthusiasm from the soldiers, it was disgustingly clear that they were to suffer a heavy defeat; one that would cost them a great number of lives, and land.

In terms of the way things worked, all that mattered was the land.

It was a harsh reality; in the real world, lives were handled like pawns. If they were lost, it wouldn't matter. It was one less gun to be paid for, one less uniform to be sowed. On the battlefield, if someone died, their body was left to bleed out and then anything on them was stripped. Sometimes they got a burial back home.

If they were lucky.

Gilbert had a feeling that he wouldn't be one of the lucky ones. His parents had died when he was young, and the mercury was going to his grandfather's practically ancient head. That was really all he had left; a senile old man and a crappy, shared apartment back in Berlin filled with a couch, a bed, and a couple dishes. No missus, not even a mister that was kept a secret.

That was part of his personal reality. He was alone, and that was the real impetus behind him joining the Prussian army. Yes, the glory and fame and guns and honor to your family or something that came with it were pretty nice, but he had really no other options left. He had a talent for writing, but that would get him nowhere in a militaristic kingdom. So, it was the pen or the sword, as they say.

Ultimately, that was what had brought him here, into the cloud of gunpowder and the smoke from firing canons. It had been an inevitable battle. They'd been fighting the damned Grande Armée on and off for a while now, and it had come down to this.

At this point, the Prussian Army had come to understand their certain defeat. Their senior officers were all twice as old as the field officers, and Gilbert had come to realize that the tactics Napoleon's men employed far outshone theirs, which hadn't really changed much since Frederick the Great's time. Considering that was about twenty years ago, they had some improvements to make.

Well, that was a bit of an understatement.

At the beginning, they had greatly outnumbered the army of frogs. Unfortunately, that did essentially nothing to help them. You see, it was how you used your men that mattered. And France knew how to do it a whole lot better.

Gilbert was currently engaged in a not so small spat between what was left of the small squadron he commanded and a storm of furry helmets and white uniforms across the field. His ears rang at a pitch high enough to shatter glass from the roar of shots around him and the dynamic of his voice as he tried to scream commands at the few men who weren't too panicked to listen.

The French kept on advancing, and they kept on pushing back. He had been lucky enough to have been assigned quite a few good shots, as long as their hands weren't shaking from fear, and they managed to shoot a few high-and-mighty kind of guys off their own horses. Other than that, they mostly managed to hit shoulders and thighs of soldiers; nothing fatal, but it at least slowed their opponent down.

The more they had advanced, the more worried Gilbert became. No matter how many men they shot down, more seemed to appear. It was as if the entire spearhead of the Grand Armée had descended upon the one crossroads the Prussian Army didn't think mattered. And that's why they assigned it to Gilbert.

Although he was descent with strategy, and good with a gun, Gilbert was new. He hadn't been in the army for even four months. Even though they gave him his own small division, they knew he was a rookie, and he was bound to fuck something up. So they put him in a small and not too obvious area that his senior officers were sure wouldn't be attacked by too large of a force.

Mein gott, were they wrong.

Gilbert had been almost sure that the French would use the pass he'd been assigned, but those old men who hadn't actually seen battle in at least a couple of years had refused to believe him.

If he got out of this alive, he would demand being put in charge of strategy. But even that wasn't looking like too promising of an option at the moment.

"Fire!" He called out, his voice hoarse from yelling so much and from the ash in the air that was rapidly collecting in his chest.

A deafening roar once again reached his ears as bullets were shot at the enemy in front of them. He saw two of their men came down before they quickly retaliated with their own fire. A bullet whizzed past his left ear and buried itself in his right-hand-man's neck. Although it didn't strike anything major, he was essentially down and out.

And another body to add to the count.

So far, twenty-seven men under his care had died. Considering he only had sixty subordinates, that was starting to become a bit of a problem. And only more kept on falling. To be entirely frank, he was lucky that he hadn't been shot straight in the face. He was standing at the very front point of their little formation, wearing a hypothetical feather hat. Those painted a burning red target on his chest.

He knew he shouldn't push his luck, but it was almost making him frustrated. He should have been long dead at this point. As soon as the thought entered his head, the French began to aggressively advance, putting tremendous pressure on his small division that he was sure they could not handle.

After a pause and a few terrified glances from his men, he made his decision. "Retreat."

They looked hesitant.

"I said retreat, god dammit!" He let anger creep into his voice. They needed to run. Now.

They remained facing forward, and quickly backpedalled into an area of thicker brush. Gilbert gripped onto his rifle in a white-knuckled hold. He gestured to an outcropping of rocks to their right. If they could at least hide behind something, they might be able to preserve the majority of their lives.

They practically sprinted, moving as fast as the hot uniforms allowed. Gilbert stayed at the back, pushing his slowest men forward with a strange sort of patriarchal instinct. He didn't want to leave anyone else behind.

Just as he approached the beginning of the rocky upslope, he felt a shock of uneasiness. All of his men were safely crouching behind rocks, a distance away from the French, so what was there to worry about at the moment? It took him a moment to realize it.

It was him.

That uneasiness had been the last scraps of his survival instinct kicking in. He was alone, a vibrant uniform against a gray backdrop. He had a target burned into his chest.

And an officer had finally seen it.

The shot sounded almost distant, as though it had been a lucky hit. He stumbled back, and then his body seized up for a moment, frantic signals being sent all over his body. His hands froze, the barrel of the gun in his hold drooping down slightly. It didn't quite hurt, not exactly. It sort of felt like a sharp shock, similar to the feeling when you drop hot candle wax on sensitive skin, except that it didn't really recede.

He heard quiet, frantic chatter behind him, voices tinged with fear. Gilbert looked down and saw a bright red blossoming on his uniform. When he did, he had somewhat of a disconnect between his mind and his body. He had seen so many other people bleed dry, but it was almost disturbing to see himself in that position.

Judging from where the hole in the fabric was, that shot had been _very_ lucky. Blood that vital a color only came from arteries and other important components. Suddenly, his knees grew week at the idea that he was, in fact, going to die soon. Then they gave way, his side colliding with he sparsely covered ground. The gun skidded away from his grip, so his hands went to press at the wound.

During the months since he'd joined the army, of course he'd wondered what death really _felt_ like. He'd seen the liveliness leave so many people's eyes, and wondered how that felt. He'd wondered how losing so much blood felt. He'd wondered how having a raging fever give way into a heat-hazed death felt. Whether from wounds or from disease, he'd wondered what it felt like.

Gilbert had had this little voice in his head that told him that he would find out some day, and probably some day soon, but he'd tried to push of the discovery as long as he could.

Unfortunately, he was at his end now, with an army advanced upon him. His last stand hadn't really worked. It had been desperate anyway, and the logical part of him knew that he wouldn't squirm his way out of this situation, not as a commanding officer.

Because he had a target burned into his chest.

* * *

Prussia remembered the first time he'd held a gun.

Since he was just a vague concept, he had always fought with a sword. He liked the sound of metal on metal, but times were-a-movin' and he had to catch up, so Switzerland gave him a gun he'd gotten from China.

Well, although reluctant to change, Prussia loved the damned thing the second he'd learned how to fire it. It reeked of gunpowder afterward, and it gave off the most spectacular bang! when it went off.

God, what a marvelous weapon it was.

* * *

_**Gilbert was a soldier who died protecting his country, which explains his love of violence and militaristic attitude.**_

_**If anyone could tell, this takes place during the Battle of Jena-Auerstedt, where the Prussian Empire was overtaken by Napoleon.**_

_**The writing on this one is a little sloppy (sorry about that), but I tried to make it more casual to match Prussia's demeanor.**_

_**Review please?**_

_**Tumblr: onebillion-stars**_


	13. Elizaveta- As A Caged Bird

_**All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them.**_

_**The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each.**_

_**Now that we've finished the core of the Axis, we'll be moving on to the rest of the Germanics. First comes Elizaveta.**_

_**A/N: Also, I forgot to credit jasmin flower**_ _**for suggesting that I move the method of the death to the bottom (to preserve the surprise). I like it much more now!**_

* * *

_Autumn, 1480_

Mama had been crying a lot as of late. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Elizaveta would wake up and listen to the muffed sobs and quiet tears that mama didn't think she and her little sister could hear through the dark stifling curtain that night brought. Or some days, when she was gently stirring the contents of a pot over the stove, she would discreetly scrub at her cheeks with the palm of her hand, wiping the salty trails away.

Elizaveta could not blame her for not being able to keep the whole affair discreet. Many days, Elizaveta would feel tears welling up when her little sister, Felicia, would ask when papa and their older brother Tibor were going to come home. The honest answer that she could not bare to choke out was that she had not the slightest idea.

They had left early, when the rumors of war were just beginning to spark. She remembered the day they passed through the front doorframe for the final time in god-knows-how-long. Papa had still had that stern, yet gentle smile on his face and Tibor looked ebullient, his veins itching for the adrenaline rush that war brought. Papa had kissed mama's cheek, and pulled she and Felicia into a tight embrace. He had left with the promises of returns rolling off of his tongue, but they had not heard a word since. Not a single drop of ink had made its way to their door, nor a messenger dressed in blue and gold.

Although things were going well for Hungary, the lack of news from the war front in their small village constantly worried Elizaveta. No matter how much they yearned for horses bringing information to come storming through the mountains, it was those mountains that prevented it. The only way they heard anything of the battles was when a soldier came home to either be welcomed with joyous tears or breath his last.

That conundrum had bothered Elizaveta for as long as the war had been persisting. Three years, and they had barely heard a word. Whenever she brought it up around mama, she was always dismissed.

"It's just the way it is. There is no use in complaining about something you cannot change."

However, as she thought about the topic more and more, and her brash courage increased with her age, a nagging solution had been scratching at the back of her mind.

Mama always talked about how much Elizaveta looked like her father, with her long hair and her build and even her nose. She understood that her father was a somewhat feminine-looking man, so it was no surprise when she nearly mimicked his appearance as she became older.

Elizaveta thought that it explained the sourness and regret in her mother's eyes whenever she looked at her.

Yes, she looked so much like her father, aside from her distinctly female aspects. But those could be hidden, couldn't they? If she bound her chest and pulled back her hair, she could become her father. She hoped so, at least.

Slowly, so slowly, that nagging solution had become something far more concrete. If news of the war, if news of their family, did not arrive naturally to their village, Elizaveta would bring it to them.

The one flaw in her hastily executed plan was when on earth to actually make her escape. If she tried to leave at night, her sister sleeping next to her would wake up, and mostly likely cause a fuss. It would be impossible for her to leave during the daylight hours due to mama's vigilant eye. Eventually, she decided that the night would be safer. If she fed her sister a little white lie, she would be able to slip out of the back door, through the steep mountain terrain, and to the nearest army center.

It was not an easy decision in any sense of the word. The night she finally braved the terrifying notion of being alone in a man's world, she stared at the ceiling, failing to will herself to move from her bed. Finally, with shaking limbs, she pushed the threadbare blankets off of her bound chest and quietly tapped across the creaking floor toward the hearth in the house.

"Elizaveta?" A soft, sleepy voice called from the corner. She could feel her sister's dazed eyes training her.

"I'm just going to get some fresh air. I'll be back soon, alright?" She responded, barely moving a muscle.

"Oh. Alright. Come back soon, Elizaveta." Felicia murmured groggily, her voice slurred with drowsiness.

Soon, Elizaveta heard the rustling of cloth that signaled Felicia turning back toward the wall. She breathed a near-silent sigh of relief and, with one last look at the other sleeping form in the corner, slipped beyond the austere house's four walls.

Hidden in the dense underbrush were men's clothes Elizaveta had stashed there in the previous weeks. After quickly slipping them on her body, she tightened the laces on her boots and began her trek, mind full of fear and trepidation, along with the slightest hint of hope.

* * *

_Spring 1484_

"Shit."

"Come on Edvard, we gotta run."

Two years. It had been four years since Elizaveta had left behind part of her family, hoping to find the rest. After two months of searching, the only traces she had found of her father and her brother were graves.

She had found out early in her enlistment in the Black Army. She had desperately wanted to run right back home, into her mother's arms, and barely force the news through her lips, but she was bound to the fighting regiments for a indiscernible period of time, as Edvard.

Now, that forced commitment had landed her into a difficult situation that she had already acknowledged she would be unable to escape. Although the Black Army was winning this battle, her regiment was being pursued across the open field with reckless abandon by the damn Austrians. Their army weighed them down, and their enemy had horses. It was only a matter of time before they were killed, or worse, taken prisoner.

As their fate approached, it seemed as though the latter was reserved for them. She knew that no matter how desperately they ran, lungs screaming for air they could not have and legs nearly giving way, they would be taken away bound and gagged. She knew, in the end, that struggling against it would only make it worse so, when the time came, she gave in willingly.

...

The soldier who had taken her had calloused hands. That was the first thing she noticed once they were off of the battlefield and the Hungarian Flags flew high and proud behind the retreating Austrian army. He had gripped her by the sliver of exposed wrist, harshly twisted her gauntlet-clad hand behind her back.

He spoke in gibberish, his word harsh and gutteral. After several seemingly biting questions, in which she caught _Ungarn_, the only word she recognized in his ridiculous language, she finally responded.

"Baszd meg!" She snapped, shoulder jerking to try and wriggle out of his grip.

He held her even more harshly, and growled something with a lethal tone. At that, she decided that it would be in her better judgment to comply

* * *

_Summer 1484_

They had found out. A soldier working in the prison camp had gotten too rough, and she had only been wearing a thin shirt- a shirt thin enough that anyone with enough sense could feel the curve of her breasts, even through the bindings. She had felt bile rise in her throat. The soldier, surprised and sickeningly delighted, had taken her to his senior officers.

Edvard, or Elizaveta once again, did not care to relive what had happened next.

After labeling her 'fine quality', the captain there had decided that she would be sent to Vienna, where a well-to-do merchant was looking for a 'little wife'. She did not want to think about what the term 'little wife' meant to them. Most likely, she would be like a caged bird, for spectatorship when forced to sing for its master.

It sickened her.

When that same senior officer who had so unashamedly tainted her was sent back to the city, she was forced along, the chains still binding her wrists, the cloth no longer binding her chest. She suffered an oppressive silence in a long ride to Vienna, it only being broken by harsh, jaunting remarks that she could understand were either about her homeland or her body.

Her arrival in Vienna brought nothing better. She was almost paraded down the streets as a treasure. "Look here at this pathetic Hungarian savage!" It was difficult to discern his German, but she could understand enough to piece together broken sentences that made her feel even more empty.

* * *

_Winter 1484_

She had been married in the autumn, her husband nearly twice her age and cruel beyond belief. She had become used to purple blossoming underneath her skin any time she spoke a word of her native tongue, of if she refused to come to bed. As Elizaveta had predicted, she was only a display here. Despite the war not going favorably for the Austrians, she was like some spoil of war.

She was in hell.

She would never be able to tell her mama about what happened to papa and Tibor. She wouldn't get to see Felicia grow up to be as beautiful as mama. God help them, they had no clue as to where Elizaveta was.

Despite all of her good intentions, Elizaveta had only caused her loved ones more grief in the end. And she would have to wallow in that for the rest of her life, until it consumed her.

* * *

_Winter 1485_

In the end, it consumed her far quicker than she had originally thought it would. Soon, she felt the need to cut open her skin and let the grief and guilt slowly drip from her body. And, one day, that desire, that need, came to fruition.

_That man_ was away on business, sailing up the coasts to deliver god-knows-what and receive his own weight in gold. She still refused to call him by his name. She still refused to take his last name, at least in her own mind.

She would not die a Leitner, she would die as a Hedervary, just as her father and her brother had.

That was why she finally committed the deed when she was alone, when she was able to be herself. She sang soft songs to herself in Hungarian, and she was not punished, her hair was not pulled until her scalped burned.

That was why when she calmly pushed a blade in a swift, smooth line upper her forearm, she felt a strange sort of peace. Although she sat in a Austrian-furnished home, in Austrian dress, she felt herself once again, wearing her mother's necklace and letting her tongue form the familiar syllables.

She would be brave. She would not die as the 'little wife', but as her father had. As strong as any man.

* * *

"So that's the little Hungary I've been hearing about, hmm?" Prussia glanced across the field at the boy that approached. "He doesn't look too bad."

"I would reconsider that statement, sir. He's probably the brashest kid I've ever met."

"Really now?" Prussia responded. "Let's see just how much of a man he is."

* * *

_**Elizaveta was a woman who, after disguising herself as a himself, went to fight in the army. Unfortunately, she was discovered and forced into marriage, which later caused her to commit suicide.**_

_**This took place, in my mind, during the Austrian Hungarian War, more specifically the Battle of Leitzersdorf (yes, I know Hungary did win here, but oh well).**_

_**Please review?**_


	14. Vash- You Will Betray Yourself the Most

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_Now onto Vash._**

* * *

He needed a stiff drink.

Every Thursday, starting at precisely 6:15 in the evening, Vash met with his therapist, whom he had yet to reluctantly trust. It was draining enough as is, living with his condition, and having to trust someone to talk about not trusting people was a bit of an oxymoron, at least in his mind.

Afterwards, he always needed the sharp burn and sting of alcohol to dull the anxiety that coursed through his veins after every nerve-wracking hour-long meeting. Conveniently enough for him, about a block away from the therapist's office was a small bar that tended to serve questionably cheap liquor considering the quality. It was typically unpopulated, few people noticing the dark wood-clad building hidden underneath the eves of a well-maintained apartment above it, and the frequented grocery store off to its left.

This was why, one evening, when he had stumbled upon it entirely by accident, he had been quite happy.

His shoes tapped down the quite street, few people out at the odd slightly-after or in-the-middle-of dinner hour on a typically Thursday night. It gave his mind the slightest bit more ease, not having to worry about the suspicious figures he saw looming in every pedestrian.

Approaching the small bar, he heard a slight filter of old 40's music slip through the door as it swung open to let several customers leave. Vash seemed to sigh and hold his breath at the same time. Yes, there would be less people to confront him in the bar, but now there was more pressure to talk to them outside. As long as he stayed out of their direct path of sight…

"Gute Nacht!" A slim woman called to him as she passed, a slight smile playing on her lips.

Vash simply replied with a nod, barely perceptible, holding his breath the entire time. _Good night._ She probably cared less if he rotted in hell that night or got a raise. No one cared about others anyway. Humans were selfish creatures. Always telling, always turning behind backs, and lifting knives. That was why Vash did not care for other people. You could only trust yourself in this world; god knows what would happen if he was open about himself. People were cruel, simply said.

He finally released his bated breath as the voices of the passers-by faded behind him. He stopped for a small pause, holding himself in place before he mustered the courage to reach a trembling hand toward the faded bronze door handle. He rested it there for a few moments, examining the peeling garish dark green paint adorning the door. It always seemed particularly interesting just before he entered.

Finally, he pushed open the door, which was far heavier than it appeared at first glance. A small bell rang above, it's clapper so loose and weakly knocked out of position that it made more of a light discordant clang than a ring. He peered around the small room. The only people who were present consisted of a fair-haired bartender named Trine, with whom he was rather familiar after all of these nights, and a regular patron named Mätri who had the reputation of the local drunkard. He did not talk much- as he was rarely conscious- which was the main reason why Vash didn't mind him.

He was confronted with the smell of stale cigar smoke, the not entirely unpleasant smell tingling in his lungs as he breathed it in. If he came earlier, he was sure the bar would be filled with swirls of the stuff in the air. The sharp scent of alcohol followed immediately after, punctuating the air with an almost crisp, yet hollow smell.

"Ah, good evening Vash." Trine called as he passed into the threshold. She sent him a tired smile, and nodded toward the countertop she was currently wiping off.

Vash warily approached the stools that had painfully cracked leather tops. Although he was quite used to Trine's company, he still had not come to fully trust her, but he figured that she was as close as he would be able to force himself to get. He no longer worried that she would give him alcohol poisoning, or that she would cut off his hand with the knife she used to cut the fruit for the drinks.

He lightly sat down, leaning his elbows on the scratched glass that had long since lost its luster. The dim light from the corner reflected to make little white slats on the surface.

"So, whaddya in the mood for tonight?" Trine asked, glancing at him over her shoulder as she stood in front of the rows of amber and warm-colored bottles. "Wine's been even more popular lately. We have a decent Chardonnay- from France I think. Or maybe it's Italy…" She trailed off.

"Shouldn't you know your own stock?" Vash questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh shush. There are easily seventy-something bottles here." She looked pointedly at him in response. "So, wine or not?"

"No, I need a little more alcohol. Have any good vodka?"

"Yikes. Hard therapy session or something?"

"Not your concern. Have any good vodka?" He asked again. "Or scotch."

"Sorry, sorry. We have some nice Finnish stuff. Strong as hell, and burns twice as much."

"I'll take that."

"As you wish." She grabbed at a clear bottle, quickly uncorking it and pouring it in a shot glass. He caught a label full of gibberish on the side of the bottle as she poured.

Vash nodded his thanks, reaching for the glass and slamming it back before beckoning for another. After two more, he had a pleasant buzz going. His mind felt somewhat more at ease with just Trine calmly cleaning glasses and Mätri passed out in the corner booth he always sat in. Trine was humming along with some old song on the radio, a content look on her overworked face, hips gently swaying to the slow bass in the background. Her fingers twisted over edges and carefully placed glasses back in perfect order, running them over the lip as she put them up. It was in moments like this that he almost forgot that people were awful.

Unfortunately, that small peace Vash was afforded was abruptly shattered as the door flew open, slamming against the dark wooden paneling on the wall. It was followed by an eruption of noise as a party of three stumbled through the door jam, clearly already thoroughly drunk.

"Oi!" One called. "You there, with the nice tits, pour us some beers er somethin'." An unceremoniously loud hiccup and laughs from his companions followed. His voice was slurred, his accent blurring syllables together.

Trine's face flushed in embarrassment, subtly making herself cave in, trying to hide her chest. Eyes cast downward, she grabbed for what Vash knew was a shitty brand of cheap beer, an American brand, and poured three pint glasses. She pushed them down the counter, as far away from her and Vash as she could go without dropping them to the floor.

"Aw, come on tits." The same man called. "Why dontcha come oer here an' give us some-" Another hiccup. "-service." His friends grinned ear to ear, still laughing.

"If you want that sorta service, go to the goddamn red light district." She snapped, moving further toward Vash.

"Ha! Caught us there, didn'tcha?" He replied. "You look straight outa the red light district, don't she?" He looked at his friends. "I mean, look at that rack."

"Yeah, she does. Come on tits! Give us some!"

Trine looked down, her hangs wringing. "You can leave, Vash. You're probably really uncomfortable. There are too many people here." Her voice was quiet and awkward, with a hint of shame. "The- the drink's on the house, okay?"

_No, no, no. This is all wrong. They're going to hurt her; they'll do something awful to her. That's what all people do. They're going to rape her, or kill her. I mean, look at them. Just as suspicious as anyone. _Vash's thoughts ran quietly and angrily in his head. _All people are terrible, they always want to hurt._

"Oi, tits! We're waiting for an answer!"

"Fuck off." Vash said, surprised at his own vocalization. "She's uncomfortable. Why don't you fuck off, you bastards."

_Oh god. Oh god, what have you gone and done? You idiot. They're malicious, they're going to hurt you too._

**No, no.** Another voice in his head argued- his therapist's. **They won't hurt you. Most people are quite nice. Only a few want to hurt you. That doesn't mean you should fear everyone.**

_He's right, Vash._

"Whaddya jus' say?" The same man stood up at glared at him.

_Oh god._

"You-You want to hurt her." Vash replied hurriedly, his tongue tripping over the words out of panic. "So, fuck off."

"Brave words from some stutterin' idiot, huh?" He approached Vash. Drawn up to his full height, the man was easily eight inches and twenty kilograms heavier.

_Oh god._

"Don't touch me." Vash quickly said, pulling out a small knife he always kept in his front pocket, just in case he somehow found himself in the situation he always feared- like now.

"Hoho! Getting' brave, are we?" The man grabbed Vash's wrist and, with a quick jerk, broke it.

Vash felt a sharp stab of pain in his wrist, and his hand spasmed as a result, dropping the knife. The man kept twisting, grinding in the pain.

_ Oh god._

"Come on guys. Help me teach this guy a lesson."

The two other men came over with the sort of malicious glint in their eyes that his therapist and everyone he knew had been trying to convince him wasn't there. His therapist, Trine, Lili. Oh, they were wrong. They were so, so wrong.

Without a second to begin to process what was happening, a hard punch was aimed at jaw, knocking his head back, and him off of the stool.

"Vash!" He heard Trine call. _Get out of here, goddammit,_ he thought.

Suddenly, there wasn't just the one fist after him, it was two, four, five more. They came down relentlessly. First his jaw, then his chest, his sides, right in the center of his stomach. That made him fold in half, trying to evade the barrage.

_I was right, I was right, I was right. _He repeated over and over in his head. _I was right. People are always malicious. I was right, I was right, I was right._

Then he saw something out of his periphery as he tried to raise his head. A hard hook, aimed specifically at his jaw. He wasn't strong enough to try and block it, nor was he fast enough. He turned his head slightly to try and lessen the impact- and that turned out to be a mistake.

When the bony hand collided with the edge of his jaw, the force whipped his head to the other side, and he felt something snap.

_Oh god._

He barely had time to register what happened before he fell to the scuffed floor. He did not even have a moment to process his reality.

_I was right I was right I was right._

He heard a horrified gasp from Trine as his skull came into contact with the hard wooden boards.

_Oh god._

* * *

"Why won't you just make an alliance with me!" Austria was yelling at him, his face red with anger.

"For God's sake, lay off it already." Switzerland replied. If Austria would just leave; he had things to do.

"But why? It makes every bit of sense- economically and militarily- for us to be allies. Why in the hell won't you sign the damn treaty?"

"You've known this since we were two feet tall; I don't like sides."

"You don't like sides? Bullshit." He glared daggers at him behind his glasses. That prissy little man could really look terrifying if he wanted to. The Austrian Empire was still alive and somewhere inside that stupid head of his.

"Fine. You'd be too difficult to ally with anyway. Have fun when Germany takes over your towns." Austria looked on the verge of spitting at him when he walked out.

"You know I don't like sides…" He muttered as his gaze followed Austria into a waiting car.

* * *

**_Vash was a sufferer of paranoia, which explains his infamous neutrality as the country of Switzerland. The theory was vague, so I took some liberties and explained why he does not take sides, since the one time he butted in, he got killed._**

**_I had Finlandia in mind when I was describing alcohol choices. I had a sip at a family member's party and nearly threw up. It burns like no one's business. It's probably not that bad, but I have low alcohol tolerance- with both taste and getting tipsy. _**

**_If I didn't get it across clearly enough, his neck was snapped. I'm not too familiar with physical confrontational fights like this, so I tried to have it end in a method that wasn't just 'beaten to death'._**

**_Please review?_**


	15. Roderich- Leave Any Way Except Slowly

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_This chapter is about Roderich._**

* * *

Everyone leaves.

You know it's an actual scientific fact that people have trouble sticking to people. It's why the divorce rates are so high. People don't like long-term commitments. They leave. Oh, they leave, they leave, they leave.

Everyone left him. Yes, that was the way it was, wasn't it? First it had been his parents, then the rest of his family. Then his friends. Then, after everything Roderich had been through, _he_ left. Then Roderich left himself.

Everyone leaves in the end. Don't share yourself, and you won't miss anyone when they do leave. That was the way he has resigned to living now.

Ah, yes. That sort of realization had come crashing into his mind some time ago. Right when he came to accept how abandoned, and how lonely he was. That was when everything came 'crashing down', as people say.

Back in what could be called his glory days, he owned a successful art gallery in the heart of Vienna, had a decent circle of friends and acquaintances, and was considered by everyone, including himself, to be happy. Then, music was his passion, but ended up being nothing more than a glorified hobby. After all, bills had to be paid, and he was far too frugal to hire an assistant to help run the gallery.

But the War had taken its tribute, and now that everything else was gone, he had time to work on his music. Yes, plenty of time. Hours upon hours of working in a dark, dilapidated apartment on the outskirts of the city he once loved. The sound of old fountain pen being scratched across thick paper to make neat lines and messy clef signs rarely ceasing to fill the room.

It always smelled of mildew. It was something Roderich observed every waking moment. The small part of him that still clung onto his upper-class habits was disgusted, but the rest of his mind, a compilation of white noise and voices, managed to scream louder. So, although he was aware of what a shit-box he was living in, he no longer could spare the mentality to care.

Yes, how could he care? How could he care when he had to work!

Despite the tiny dimensions of the room, Roderich had managed to fit the last remnants of his former life into the corner. It was a glorious piano. Old and long-cherished by his family. A Steinway. His fondest memories from when he was a child were of his father sitting down, resting his fingers gently on the keys, and making the string sound in beautiful tones. When Roderich's fingers were long enough, he had sat him on his lap, and placed his spidery hands over Roderich's own, and walked him through Mendelssohn's Song Without Words.

Before the War, it had been the centerpiece of so many grand parties that half of Vienna attended. First his father filled the halls with Mozart and Handel and then, when he realized that Roderich was surpassing him, he was the one who played for hours on end.

It was somewhat ironic. Something so beautiful and dear to him- the last thing left of his family- was sitting on a floor that let in a terrible under draft underneath a leaking ceiling with cracks that spread likes spider webs by the one windowpane.

It was as out of place as some part of Roderich knew he was.

But, oh, he could only work on the best. After all, he was creating his grand masterpiece! Yes, a symphony that would premier at the Musikverein on New Year's Day. He would the celebrated composure that his mother had always dreamed of. Yes, yes. He would make her proud again, even if she wasn't here any more. Even if she had left him, he had to make her happy to have a son. He did not bring their family military honor, he was not a businessman, nor was he a lawyer. He would have to make her proud with his music.

The way Roderich wrote was different from his father. He had written strong melodies, heavy and dreary. They were beautiful to listen to, but they always shrouded the room in gray fog. One person could only listen to so much of it. It would drive you crazy if you heard too much. It was the kind of music that brought too much; it made your head fill with pressure.

Roderich's music had always been nearly the polar opposite of his father's. The pages upon pages of music strewn on the piano and on the floor were beautiful in a sort of lilting way. Roderich wrote them with a sort of sadness in mind, as his father had, whereas his father's had been heavy, deep sadness, Roderich's was far more delicate. It was the sort of sadness he had felt as he waved goodbye to the only people he had loved, as he was wretched away from that last person left.

The sort of string wrapping around his brain as he watched dark-clad troops march down the cities he had once felt comforted to walk on.

So, oh but of course it hurt to write everything. With every measure, every phrase, brought the sound in his mind to a fever-pitch that screamed in his ears and filled his thoughts with static.

His left hand glossed over keys, his fingers stumbling their way over the notes with purpose, the piano carrying the melody a moment before his torn fingernails hit the smooth ivory. His right hand was furiously scribbling over yet more parchment. All that could be heard were harsh '_scratch_'s as he forcefully drew stems over tiny ovals.

_The violins will come in once again here. Yes, yes, good, good. The cellos…. The cellos will follow behind in the same fugue._

_ Crescendo, yes, louder, louder, louder. _He nearly tore through the paper as his writing became heavier.

That page was full, the phrases so tiny and crammed together that it was hard to tell what part was what. Roderich pushed the sheet away from him, leaving it to slip into the growing pile at the end of the piano. It disturbed what was already precariously resting there, sending a cascade of paper to the floor, the gentle rustle of them falling to the ground breaking the sound of heavy-handed writing.

"Dammit." He muttered. "Dammit, dammit, dammit. Now it's all out of order."

He dropped his fountain pen somewhere, not paying attention as to where. He dropped to his knees in front of the pile, his hands grabbing for pieces of paper. He had failed to realize how dry his hands were. As he gathered them in his grasp, he found himself scanning over pages he had written days ago.

_No, no, no. This is all wrong. _Roderich suddenly felt his blood rush to his head.

_All wrong. What was I thinking? This is shit._

He looked around him, dragging more pages down from the piano top. He splayed them over the floor around him, sitting in a ring of parchment. Nothing looked right all of a sudden. All of the notes seemed dissonant, the key changes seemed wrong. The fugue didn't seem intricate enough. It was all so, so wrong.

He frantically clawed at more pages. He felt panic begin to rise in his chest. _How could I have thought this was a masterpiece? You're crazy, crazy. Yes, yes, you're crazy._

He hadn't meant it literally, but a part of him knew that it was true.

The panic was pounding against his ribcage, closing its filthy hands around his windpipe. He longed to scream, loudly and shrilly. It was such a sudden impulse it almost caught him off guard. His muscles seized, and his hands shook. It all felt disquieting, unsettling. His nerve endings felt as though they were on fire, burning his skin.

_Just do something with your hands. _Yes, yes, that would do.

He hauled himself up, using the piano as support, and unsteadily sat himself down on the bench. He extended his trembling fingers toward the keys, but could not find the control to position them correctly. Instead, he swiped the rest of his music off of the piano. Although less coordinating, he needed to do something.

Something.

Scream.

Kick.

Break glass.

He tore at a box on the ground next to the piano, ripping open the flimsy cardboard top. Something, yes, something. He would do something.

The panic now took his breathing. The foul beast took up all of the room in his lungs. It worked its way through his bloodstream, through his veins, and to his mind. _What a failure, a failure, a failure,_ he chanted in his head. It was a mantra of sorts.

Personal mantras often tend to be true.

He continued digging through the box, throwing things to opposite ends of the room, smashing things against the wall, until he found what he was looking for. It was still in its pristine box, smooth mahogany. An 18th birthday present from his father.

Unable to practice care any more, or even care at all, he threw open the lid and grasped at the thing inside, nails scratching against velvet.

The revolver itself was beautiful. Made in the days when people actually put care into guns, instead of the mass production the damned Germans spurred. A fitting way to go, he thought. The last page of his book would end with his old upper-class flourish, albeit red-stained.

As he brought the smooth barrel to his temple, he realized that he wasn't entirely sure what had brought him to this decision. He could have easily done anything else; rip up his music, smash the clock, force his fist through the window glass. He didn't know, but his mind screamed too loudly and his blood flowed too rapidly to care.

With dissonant noise in his ears, he found a fitting end of sorts to his symphony, even if he hated the rest.

A grand 'bang!'.

* * *

"You really miss that damn piano, don't ya?" Prussia asked, standing at a distance from Austria.

He didn't respond.

"But-cha can't play with the way you are now, right?"

There was a moment of silence. "No, Prussia, I can't. What is it that you want?"

Prussia stared at the once-great empire perched in a wheelchair, still managing to maintain his hoity-toity posture. "Well, ya know. You can't reach the pedals, so…" He trailed off.

"Excellent observation."

"I could push 'em for ya if you need." Prussia paused, an awkward smile on his face. "You'd go crazy without company or your music, wouldn't ya? It's the least I could do. You know, killing two birds with one stone."

Austria raised an eyebrow.

* * *

**_Roderich was a deranged composer who killed himself while writing._**

**_Well? What did you think? Hastily written, but here it is._**

**_I apologize for not updating in a while. I have been literally swallowed in schoolwork._**

**_Anyway, please review? (and follow me on tumblr)_**

**_tumblr: onebillion-stars_**


	16. Lili- Any Provocation Was Reason Enough

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908 (now fanfiction's InferoxPhoenix), so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each._**

**_To finish up Central Europe, here we have dear little Liechtenstein. Whoo long chapter here._**

* * *

"Morning."

"Good morning to you too. Did you sleep well?"

The man shrugged in response. He looked more like a man-shaped blur than a man in Lili's sleep-heavy eyes. "How about you? Sleep well?"

Lili didn't exactly address the question, but minutely shook her head as a sort of response. Her father huffed in impatience. Unlike her mother, she wasn't exactly the talkative type. Lili much preferred watching people instead of being the center of attention.

"I bought that tea you like yesterday when I was at the store, the one with the flowers and stuff in it." He sat an orange box on the pink-tainted counter, adorned with ornate script that had curly-queues on the end. Lili had always liked that little touch.

"Thank you." She carefully pulled out an oak chair at the small table shoved in the corner of the kitchen, the legs scraping unceremoniously on the laminate floor.

When they had moved in, the floor in the kitchen had been one of the biggest issues. It was a revolting sheet of "tile" that wasn't installed correctly, so you could see edges of plywood peaking out of the corners of the room. Aside from that, it was this horrid sort of green, like pine tree green mixed with the color of heavy-duty artist's turpentine, covered in a textured film. They had promised to fix it eventually. But, three years later, they had yet to reach that point.

So, Lili sat and studied the tiny white diamond pattern that replaced the grout lines normal tile floors would have as she listened to the faint sound of eggs being beaten on the edge of a ceramic bowl. Over the constant _'tink, tink, tink' _of the whisk, she could hear some Sunday morning newscaster drone on about the upcoming elections. Lili had never liked him, or his channel, but dad did, so she had to shut out his off-putting accent for two hours every week.

The faint smell of toasting bread wafted toward her, alongside some combination of herbs that were thrown into the eggs, currently cooking away on a tiny four-burner. Lili always liked the smell of toast. It could fill up a room without becoming overpowering, a greatly underestimating quality. Most people who had ever touched an air-freshener can didn't understand it in the slightest.

After a few minutes, the pleasant smell was replaced by something entirely different. Lili crinkled her nose, looking over at her father. The kitchen smelled like burning, and it seemed he had, yet again, failed to realize that toast is called _toast_ and not _burn_ for a reason.

She sighed and slightly shook her head. Yes, her father could not cook for the life of him, but neither could Lili. In short, their kitchen was safest when they used the microwave.

"Here." Her father sat a plate of hastily-cooked eggs, burnt toast that he tried to cover up with too much butter, and two mugs.

Lili nodded in thanks, and her slim hands slid the plate and mug towards herself, settling them in front of her. She warily took a bite of the toast, cringing at how hard she had to chew to tear a piece off. She immediately drowned the less-than-pleasant taste with the sweet tea she liked. The liquid was scalding hot, and one of her least favorite things was burning her tongue- but she hated her father's toast even more.

They sat in silence for a few moment, the only sounds being the desperate crunching of toast and the soft thud as glasses were placed back in their place on the tabletop.

She carefully traced the veins in the granite face of the table. When she was little, instead of turning stars into constellations, she transformed random bands of white into pictures set in stone. Her older cousin would always sit next to her and help her when she was stuck, gracefully running a knitting-needle-thin finger over Lili's own, chubby with childhood, pointing out a bear's ear that she had missed, or a fairy's wand.

"You're just avoiding the topic, aren't you?" Her father suddenly spoke, his voice brittle and disembodied.

"Papa," She said flatly, holding a hint of warning.

"Oh come on, you just don't want to say it, huh?" He reached for his coffee mug, the inky liquid sloshing onto the table from the force.

"Stop." She forced her short nails into her palms, the ends jagged from biting dug into her skin.

"You know, I'm going through the same thing, too. Don't act like you're the only person suffering!" He wasn't screaming, but his voice was orotund; it took up the entirety of the small room, clashing against Lili's ears. They were ringing.

"I said stop, papa." Her voice was taut now, every cell of her vocal chords straining, whether to keep in tears or to keep from yelling, she couldn't know.

"Just face it, Lili. She's-"

Her ears screamed now.

"Shut up!" She threw her body into standing position, the old wooden chair toppling under her, sliding somewhere behind the near doorframe. Her voice joined in tandem with the ringing.

"It's your own goddamn fault! It's your fucking fault you little-"

"You think I don't know that?" Her voice was deafening now, rivaling that of her father's.

Lili hated screaming matches.

He sat there, glaring up at her, his face red and blotchy with rage. His eyes were filled with the ordinary revulsion, as well as a violent mix of resent that only came on today.

July 12th was a terrible day. It was her birthday. It was the anniversary of her mother's death.

Suddenly, in an explosion of sound, her father repeated her own action from earlier, but with far more savagery than her. A large hand grasped onto a porcelain handle and with a tremendous amount of force, flung a blue cup at Lili.

When it made contact with her sternum, pain blossomed into a scalding coffee-stain flower. Her breath choked, an odd strangled sound escaping her throat. She immediately clutched at her soaked shirt with shaking hands. In shock, she stepped back, terrified of the eyes of her father.

She quickly turned on her heel, sprinting away from the kitchen, and away from him. Running into the doorframe first, she slammed her bedroom door closed, throwing the meager lock into place. Her feet tripped over one another, ankles catching on her toes. In a whirlwind of panic, she fell to the carpet, her knees and elbows turning red from burn.

Despite the disorientation she felt, she managed to grab the hem of her shirt and desperately yanked it over her head, throwing it god-know-where in the small room. The area where the mug had hit was an angry red, broken blood vessels already turning a strange purple. The burn had split her skin in several placed, carving several tiny fissures in her skin that leaked red. It looked like a curious web made by some morbid spider you would find in a Brothers Grimm tale.

Adrenaline raced desperately through her, as though the horse races she watched on the television took place on the walls of her veins instead of on the track of Churchill Downs. It sent her body into a frenzy, limbs trembling and thoughts scrambled and confused.

There had been many times her father had retaliated against her. He reminded her almost constantly that it was her fault their family was broken. If she hadn't been born, her mother would be alive and well. After all, it was her fault that there were complications.

Her fault, her fault, her fault.

Lili clamped her hands over her ears, the ringing more like bellowing now. She knew that no matter how hard she pressed, the static raged on, like the storms in the late summer, sending sheets upon sheets of hard rain against her windowpanes. It was deafening, consuming, and unrelenting.

She didn't know if she believed in one, but god help her.

In the days of her childish innocence, when her father wasn't so cruel, and when she didn't know her anxious responsibility in it all, she liked to throw coins in the fountain in the center of the town square. She probably put enough coins to replace the fountain into the pool of water, and she always wished for the same thing; a brother. She was too young. She didn't understand. She couldn't have known that the only way she would see a brother was if her father remarried- which he swore he never would. But her wish was always the same, so naïve and innocent in nature. Oh, that Lili would have been appalled at the situation she was in now.

She brought herself to pry her palms away from her ears, coming to terms with the fact that it would not lessen the screaming. Desperate to do something with her hands, she wrapped them around her legs, pressing her back against a wooden bar on the side of her bed. It dug into her spine, and it hurt, but the pain in her chest and the white noise in her mind numbed that discomfort.

"Mama, I'm sorry." She gently rocked back and forth on her heels, pressing the balls of her feet into the rough-woven carpet beneath her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

She felt tears coming on faster than she would have liked to admit. They burned trails into her cheeks and over the crest of her jaw, running cold down her neck. Her neck constricted again. If she had been speaking, her voice would have broken. She felt sound scratching at the back of her throat, but she didn't dare make it. If papa heard, it would mean more wrath to be taken out on her.

_"How dare _you_ cry!" _He'd say.

All of this, everything that made her life, and the life of her father, miserable was her own fucking fault. If she hadn't been born, if she had died too, than things would have been okay.

It wasn't the first time she thought it, but she wondered if she should make good on that statement. Perhaps if she wasn't here anymore, things would be better. Her father would not have to say pleasant good mornings to the bane of his own existence, and she would no longer have to suffer thrown coffee cups and bruised torsos.

It was a drastic measure, she knew that much, but nothing would be left for her.

Children who aren't loved have high rates of suicide. Children who are hated have even higher.

Her eyes, red and puffy and blurry, warily searched the room for something – anything – to accomplish what she needed done. After several moments of searching, they rested on a pair of old sewing scissors. Not necessarily sharp, but from cuts on her fingers over the years, she knew they had enough of an edge.

Lili hauled herself to her feet. The effort was tremendous, her limbs numb and barely responsive. Her feet dragged with every step, her muscles taut yet slack at the same time.

By the time she had reached the desk where the scissors perched, any sort of fear or regret had left Lili's mind. In its place stood a sort of complacency- a foolish pride. There, she would be solving all of their problems herself.

What a lovely end.

Her hands, no longer quaking, wrapped themselves around the handle, opening them so that they stood wide- like a gaping jaw. She stared at the dulled and scratched metal, heavy in her hands, and wondered where would be the best place. Although her neck would be quicker, it seemed tricky to do. She wouldn't have that sort of strength. Her best option would be her wrists- delicate, frail, and thin. She could see the thick blue strand of blood wind its way all the way down her pale forearm.

In all of the movies, they talk about the 'fatal mistake'. If you are serious about sending yourself to a sort of afterlife, you don't cut horizontally. That would put Lili in a hospital, and a reality where her father's retaliation would be even worse. She could not dare make that.

She angled the blade, cold against her skin, at the very top of the blood vessel, where a woman usually wears bracelets. She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, and pressed down. Small droplets of crimson flowed away from the site, wrapping their way around her wrist.

Now, with more conviction, she started to continue down. It stung, but didn't quite hurt like she thought it would. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, either. With every centimeter of skin she slit open, she felt relief flood through her body. After the long line was drawn on her left forearm, she stared at it in fascination for a moment.

If she had lived, she would have been a doctor.

Not wanting to waste time, she quickly moved on to her right wrist, left hand slightly more unsteady with the scissors. She made this one quick, not wanting to hesitate, nor change her mind, or slip. She didn't see the need to make this one as long, instead stopping about a quarter way down her arm.

She felt the muscles in her shoulders relax as she held both of her wrists out in front of her, admiring her own handiwork. She carefully sat the scissors back down on the desk, the silver stained red at the edges.

She had a vague idea of what was to come next. Her heartbeat would pick up, her breathing would shallow, and after a dizzy spell, she would pass into a sleep no alarm or pounding on her door could wake her from.

It was such a relief, she realized. She had no regrets of her decision; no letter, no last words. She would just fade away in her sleep.

She wondered if he would care. If he would notice. If he would cry at a funeral. If he would even come. She doubted it, although some small part of her hoped he did.

At least, in the end, she would see more of her mother than one tattered photograph she kept on her nightstand.

* * *

It was late. Late for a girl to be out, especially alone. So, why in the hell was she leaning against a stone wall in an alley at 11:30 PM?

It baffled Switzerland, and he felt some sort of obligation to help her.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asked, approaching the girl. She wore two long braids, and an empty face. When she looked up, he recognized her as his neighbor. "Liechtenstein? What in god's name are you doing here? And at this hour?"

She didn't respond, instead giving him that same empty expression. "Alright, alright. Here, I'll take you home with me. I've got warm food and stuff." He grabbed onto her wrist and hauled her to her feet, her body limp and damp.

She mumbled something he didn't quite catch.

"What? I can't hear you."

"Thank you, big brother." The term of endearment surprised Switzerland.

His face turned pink. She was just tired, and damp, and her country was in shambles. He wouldn't make a good brother anyway.

* * *

**_At the beginning, I'm describing my grandmother's kitchen. Nope, it does not bring fond design memories._**

**_This one seemed more like a small story than some of my more recent chapters, and I have to say I'm pleased._**

**_A quick shout out and thank you to the guest reviewer who calls themselves Bey0nd for leaving some corrections on my French in chapter 4. I'll update that as soon as I can!_**

**_Finally, a big thank you to InfernoxPhoenix, the writer of the original theories, who recently contacted me about what I've written here. Just wanted to say another thank you (this is probably like the fifth time I've said it but oh well)!_**

**_Please review!_**


	17. Matthias- His Black Dog

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by fanfiction's InferoxPhoenix, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_To the reviewer who labeled themselves as 'An Avid Reader': yes, of course I still read the reviews! I appreciated everything you had to say. I'm glad that I've made your time worthwhile!_**

**_To the reviewers who wanted Belarus and Spain; I'm sorry, but they're not in the plan… I don't want to take too much liberty and come up from anything that deviates too much._**

**_Anyway, let's kick off the Nordics with Denmark._**

* * *

"Oi, Matt," Whoever it was, the voice was faint.

Matthias groaned.

"Matt! Wake up, man. You've got class in an hour." His roommate. That had to be it.

The second he opened his eyes to confirm that it was, in fact, the man who he was thinking of, he regretted it. Every ounce of light in the room scrambled at him, stabbing through his pupils with startling speed. And pain. He clutched at his head, his body curling in on itself.

"Go take a cold shower. Looks like you drank too much again. If you're gonna do it, at least make sure someone's around. " Matthias heard some rustling as his roommate, a man named Jacob, looked or something. "You really gotta quit that habit, you know. You'll drink yourself to death."

"God, just shut up for once, Jacob." His voice was a little harsher than he meant for it to be.

"Fine, fine. They're your own choices. Have fun with that headache." Jacob called as a parting sentiment, closing their door with his foot a little more force than was necessary.

"Ass," Matthias mumbled as he tried, slowly, opening his eyes again. The light wasn't quite as bright, and the pain not as intense, but it wasn't going to be a fun morning for him, to say the very least.

He tried for at least ten minutes to drag himself out of bed, failing miserably the first time, his legs tangled up in the bed sheets. Would it kill the university to put a little more padding in the carpets? There was nothing but plywood underneath the carpets. Matthias hadn't had the fortune of finding that out before in all of his hung-over mornings before. This was a first. Whoo.

When he finally managed to get himself situated on two feet, the three meters to the bathroom seemed to be a ridiculously far away distance. Blinking rapidly, and his hand grasping at the wall for support, he slowly made his way to the door, stumbling along the way. When he finally reached his destination, and flicked on the light switch, he immediately wanted to reverse his decision.

The three, small white bulbs over the sink exploded into life, flooding the space with light that seemed to pierce straight through his head. The cold light was even worse than the sunlight was, and it sent Matthias tumbling. His feet caught, once again, on his discarded sheets, and he found himself, once again, on the floor.

He simply let out a sound that caught in his throat, coming out in a bit of an exasperated squeak. He then sighed, giving up and laying limp on the floor. _God, I need a drink. _That common thought ran through his head again. Alcohol was on his mind constantly, as if it was a track stuck on repeat. Over and over and over again. Day or night, it didn't matter when, and it certainly didn't matter where.

Still incapacitated, his hand fumbled around, skimming over the floor in search of a leftover bottle from last night. There had to be one. Pulling it from a haze, he remembered passing out before finishing that bottle of vodka.

Regardless, he found nothing. Cursing to himself rather violently, slamming his fist against the floor, he placed blame of Jacob. He could give a shit if his roommate meant well. Matthias needed alcohol, and it was rude to take others' property anyway.

Struggling to will his muscles to move, he shakily stood up again, shoulder immediately falling to the bathroom doorframe for support. A heavy hand reached up and dragged its way down his face, his long fingers lingering at the bridge of his nose. By the time he came to again, he found himself staring at the bathroom mirror from his position at the door jam.

He wasn't sure if it was the lighting, or just himself, but he looked tired. Not tired, as in 'I didn't even get an hour of sleep last night'. No, he looked haggard, run-down, like some burnout kid whose parents had left him in high school.

The sad thing was, that wasn't even that far from his reality.

Where he lived, where he grew up, they had never had much. His parents ran a small farm in the middle of Danish countryside that, year after year, seemed to yield little. Crops fell to either the whipping rainstorms, or to the migrations of insects. Like it would with any group of people, that slowly and steadily deteriorated their family.

Surprisingly, his mother was the first to snap. Matthias thought that it had something to do with the onset of poverty, lightly curling its way around their home. It had first started over something small. He had broken a glass, something all children do at some point in their lives. He had only been seven or eight, after all. His hands weren't quite large enough to hold the smooth cup firmly enough, so, it had come crashing to the floor.

In an instant, pots had come crashing down and, all too quickly, he had found his mothers clenched hand smashing into the side of his head. _"You worthless child!"_ She had screamed, her teeth bared, and her eyebrows scrunched together.

Matthias had stood there in shock, his mother returning to whatever she was doing at the stove. His temple throbbed with such an intensity, he felt about ready to faint. His vision became muddled with tears, blurring the sight of his mother, whose face showed no remorse, nor emotion at all.

_"Don't you dare cry," _She had muttered, her tone deathly and low. Her words were clipped, concise. It was a tone that even a grown man would have no place responding to.

He ran to his father, who he found solace in for a short while. Then, he became the same as his own wife.

As their state crumbled further and further, the soil becoming ever-drier, Matthias found himself to be the equivalent of a scratching post. Whenever he walked through the door to the house, once filled with warmth, his father's towering gaze overwhelmed him.

There were no others, not siblings, not family members, no one else that could split the pain with Matthias. Belt buckles and ring-clad fingers left an increasing amount of inexplicable bruises on his small body, ones he couldn't explain to his teachers. Eventually, he stopped attending class so that no one could ask him questions about why his lip was split, or why he couldn't carry his backpack because it hurt too badly.

So, one sticky August night, when a friend had stolen some liquor from his parents, and he found himself pleasantly able to forget everything, he had been drawn immediately. The appeal of being able to drink to forget, even if just for a few hours, was worth the splitting headaches, the loss of interests, and the addiction that soon followed.

He was twenty now, six years after that first crappy shared 6-pack of beer. Six years of forgetting, six years of scars that still hadn't healed, and six years of a slow deterioration he refused to acknowledge.

And thus, the cycle continued.

As he examined himself in the mirror, he grabbed for a comb, desperately trying to make his hair look a little more managed. Since his eyes were sunken in, his cheekbones prominent, and his skin pallid, he needed something to distract people away from that, and hair that stuck up at twenty-two different angles what a decent way to achieve it.

He rubbed cold water on his face, leaning over the sink, forehead mere centimeters away from the cool mirror glass. He stood there for a while. How long, he wasn't sure. It didn't matter anyway, it's not like he would actually be going to class. He hadn't attended any of his courses for at least a week. His inbox was full of teachers' emails, and the few friends he had pounded on his dorm door, but he was as good as dead to the world right now.

So, when he finally pulled himself upright and stumbled into the hallway, he could have cared less what the other students thought. Maybe they saw the wrinkled clothes, maybe they saw the uneven footing and glassy eyes and immediately knew that he was already drunk at 8 AM. Let them be. Other people weren't nice anyway. He had learned that over the years.

People just fucking sucked.

The sunlight outside wasn't as blinding as it had been when he first woke up. Nevertheless, driving wouldn't exactly be fun. Oh well, he had done it countless times before. He just had to avoid traffic. It would all be worth it. There was this little ABC store about six blocks down that always had the good domestic beer he liked. Then he could numb himself a little more, and stop the itch in his brain that was driving him to get more in the first placed.

He had difficulty unlocking his car, an old, used red thing he had scammed off some guy downtown. It was too old to have the automatic unlock, so he had to try and jam the key in the lock properly. That was a struggle, considering he was nearly seeing double. When he finally heard the signature 'click', he smiled a lop-sided grin, and sat heavily in the driver's seat.

More shuffling with the keys got the car started, the engine making a tapping sound that he knew wasn't good, and one of the tires lacking pressure. It shakily moved out of the spot, the exhaust sputtering every now and then.

He was still moving slowly when he pulled out of the parking lot. Someone leaned on their horn, clearly not happy with his speed.

"Aw, come on. Don't be so uptight." He hollered at the driver, very aware that he couldn't hear him.

But, regardless, he sped up so that the other cars around him didn't make that terrible shrieking noise. Horns never felt good when he was hungover.

His hands were slick on the steering wheel, moving back and forth between 10 and 2, and 9 and 3. His fingers tapped on the ridged back. God, he really needed that drink… Luckily, the next few blocks seemed to be traffic-free.

He pushed on the gas more, speeding through a red light, and flying over a crosswalk. All that was left was to cross the bridge, and then he could tear open bottle caps that brought sweet relief past his lips and through is veins.

Perhaps his foot was a little too heavy, or perhaps his hands not steady enough, but as he approached the bridge, its small steely expanse encasing the street, Matthias was not nearly attentive enough.

It happened so fast, he honestly had no idea that it even happened at all. All of a sudden, his brakes were screeching, his car was spinning, and the cement barrier on the side of the road was suddenly an inch away from his front bumper.

The alcoholic haze he was already deep inside of somehow seemed to slow and lessen everything. He saw the cracks spread through his windshield as his head smacked into the glass, and they left his vision as his neck snapped back from the impact. He felt something snap, and then,

Just like that.

It was over.

Do you forget everything when you die? Or are you stuck in some hellish purgatory, living with your life, even when you're not alive?

He didn't mean to sound cheesy, but he guessed would find out soon enough.

* * *

"Free drinks for everyone!" Denmark called out, his arm around Norway's shoulders.

The smaller tried to shove him away, unsuccessfully. "What is it with you and alcohol? How much do you need to drink before you're off to Valhalla?"

"Aw, come on Norge, I'm a little tougher than that, right?" His smile practically took up half of his face. "You gotta give me a lot to even get me passed out."

"God, you're so arrogant," Norway shook his head. "But get me a beer."

* * *

**_Hastily written, and a little disjointed, here's this chapter._**

**_Matthias Køhler was the an alcoholic, the son of two abusive parents. It explains Denmark's arrogant attitude and affinity for alcohol._**

**_I apologize for the later update this time. I've been pushing off work for a while._**

**_Review or PM please? I love knowing what you guys think!_**

**_Tumblr: onebillion-stars_**


	18. Author's Note No 2

_**So, since I know very few of you follow (or are aware) of my blog, I'm leaving a small note of notification here. Sorry for the false update alarm.**_

* * *

_**Fun fact: skipping a full year of an honors math course over the summer, and pushing all of your work to one month tends to come with some **__**poorly handled**__** side effects, it seems. **_

_**I apologize (once again- what is this now, the twelfth time?) for promising to update when I got back from my trip two weeks ago, and failing to do so. I have had ridiculously little time to update between outside-of-school-schoolwork and actual work. I take my placement test back at school on August 4th (fun- yet another standardized test in the American school system), and will be free to write obsessively from that point on to the 12th, when I have to go back to school. I won't write obsessively then, but I will be keeping a better schedule. **_

_**I was even supposed to start posting an actual story, well, today actually, but look how that's worked out. I'll most likely postpone that until the fall, if anyone is wondering. To sate your hunger between when this ends and when that starts, I have a potential oneshot planned if anyone wants to continue reading my shit. **_

_**Anyway, sorry again (and I know it sounds far from sincere- but it is). This fic is almost over as is, and I'm just dragging it out. But, I have gotten over three thousand views on the last chapter so I guess more time contributes something.**_


	19. Berwald- These Desolate Grays

**_All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by fanfiction's InferoxPhoenix, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_I apologize for the delay…_**

* * *

Where did that mantra come from, anyway? The ones about sticks and stones and words. You know, the ones that teachers would relentlessly drill into your head until it was practically etched on the inside of your skull? Who thought to write that down? Because it's shit, really it is.

Berwald had never exactly been good with his words. Whenever he tried to speak, they came out strangely, or in the wrong tone. Over years of embarrassing social encounters, dating back to his first years of primary school, he had learned that not speaking was where his best interests lie. However, most everyone else was not like him. To others, language could be taken and used as a sharply honed tool for anyone with a properly working tongue.

That had been his problem for all of these years; everyone else could use their words and he couldn't. Although, that was only part of the problem. It's like if you give two capable people a gun, they could either use it to shoot down a market, or kill the wolf eating all of your neighbor's sheep. For a long time, he had encountered the former type of people.

On his very first day of school, when he was short enough to fit underneath a doorknob, was his earliest recollection of it. Underneath a clouded September sky, he had sat on a picnic table next to the swings, gently pulling out a carefully stowed box his mother had put inside of his bag that morning. He had just wanted to eat in peace- the large amount of buzzing pre-schoolers had begun to overwhelm him.

He couldn't even remember why the small group of three came over. He just remembered that they all had unkempt near-white hair that stuck up at three hundred different angles. One of them was wearing a bright red t-shirt. He couldn't remember what the insults even where, but he could recall, clear as day, the one in the red shirt grabbing the glasses off of the bridge of his nose and crushing them underfoot.

He had come home on the verge of tears, blind eyes made worse by the beginnings of tears. His mother had knelt down and hugged him, her arms warm and inviting.

"Don't worry about those boys," She had said. "They're just trying to get you upset. Just ignore them,"

He had nodded into her sweater, and he went back the next day fully prepared to not even give them another look- not that he could even distinguish them from the crowd of child-shaped amoebas. Alas, the ego of a young child isn't meant for that sort of thing. Every day turned out the same as the last, but he was far more protective of his glasses after the first time.

At home every day, his mother would repeat the same thing, "Just ignore them, Berwald. They'll grow out of it eventually. Go and make some other friends!"

But, the thing was, they never really grew out of it. None of them ever did.

So, now, he was quiet, and reserved. The four-eyed monster, as he had been dubbed when he was little, always sat alone, and rarely spoke. It was a quiet existence, one he didn't necessarily mind, and could have been rather content with if it weren't for the raucous disruptions that came from the mouths of gel-haired peers.

His days were always the same. At 6:15, his alarm went off, he got dressed, neglected breakfast, and embarked on the mile walk to school. After that, it was a mind-numbing seven hours of quiet jabs and constant streams of over-repeated insults. At this point, he had heard all of them so many times, his mind barely registered them half of the time. But, the truth was, they still hurt, no matter how much he heard them.

Lunch was still target practice, as far as he was concerned. It had been the same since that first day. No matter what secluded table or window nook he tried to eat in, he was never left in peace. It was as if students got brownie points with the higher-ups in the school hierarchy if they managed to throw a few harsh words his way.

After two more hours of listening to a teacher drone on about insurrection, he was free to leave campus, where he would at least have some more quiet. As he gathered his things, preparing to leave the classroom, he heard heavy footsteps approach behind him. A hand was forcefully placed down on his desk.

"Oi, four-eyes, how's it goin'?" He knew that if he looked up from his task of shoving papers haphazardly into his bag, he would be confronted by that same idiot's same grin.

Berwald slung his bag over his shoulder, the strap digging in under the weight of several thick textbooks.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to ya," the same loud voice called as he tried to back towards the door. "Come on,"

A rough hand grabbed his shirt, "Our conversation isn't over yet," He found himself forced against the smooth wall with a heavy _thud_. "I didn't say it was."

Berwald still refused to meet his eyes, head turned to the side instead. His back ached from where he had been slammed into the wall.

"You don't really have any friends, do ya?" Berwald could smell his breath now, he was uncomfortably close. "Nah, who would want you anyway?"

The corner of a textbook was digging into his lower back.

"You know, Berwald," He leaned into his ear, "It would better if you just dropped dead."

Berwald felt the hold on him release.

"It would be better for all of us," A final shove. "You're worthless" His tongue was stinging.

A feeling of emptiness always ensued, especially with those sort of interactions. His mind felt blank, and his fingers went numb. He straightened his bag, and walked out, turning towards home. God, he needed to go home.

He walked outside and directed his feet down a route he had known by heart for many, many years now. They brought him across streets and through bustling Stockholm traffic, past throngs of people and through the paths of cyclists. Finally, he stood outside of his home, the front painted a warm red. The sound of the city was behind him now, and he once again felt separated from the world.

He stood there for a few moments, gaze fixed on the peeling paint on the front door, the faded metal on the knocker. So familiar, and yet it felt so distant. In this one moment.

He felt a weight settle on his shoulders. The words of the day, the week, month, year. Hell, his entire lifetime. They sat around him in a cage, pressing further and further in, and he suddenly felt the dire impulse to run, to get out, to get away. Hands trembling for some reason, his legs carried him suddenly away from home again, down more streets and across more intersections, until they brought the calm waterfront underneath him.

He stared at the gently lapping surface of the water, through the bars of a fence, a glimmering sheen encasing the waves. Ever since he was a child, the water had always calmed him down. His mother always said that his eyes were the exact color as the lake. A deep, deep, never-ending blue.

Except today, the waves were not calming him, but whipping up a further frenzy in his mind.

_"Who would want you anyway?"_

He had dealt with this so many times before. He could calm himself again. Just a breath, in and out, in and out… But the calm never came.

_"It would be better if you just dropped dead."_

It's not like he would be leaving anyone behind. His mother was preoccupied with her new husband, and what his peer had said earlier was true. He didn't really have any friends. The only thing about him that people would miss was the lack of a punching-bag.

He supposed that someone had to be the lightning rod. For countries, it was always the leaders in the government. In the microcosm of a school, it was a student that didn't quite fit in- one blinder than a bat, with too much pigment under their eyes, with a tongue-tied, awkward disposition.

_"It would be better for all of us."_

It felt almost spur-of-the-moment, swinging his leg over the fence, and onto the other side. He shuffled the front of his shoes over the edge. Traffic still whizzed by behind him, the world unfazed by a single teenager standing on the edge of a bridge.

_ "You're worthless."_

He stared into the water, the cold lake-swept wind biting at his face. The world seemed monotone, filled with shades of gray he couldn't even discern without the help of his glasses.

It was all so bland, really, to him at least. Even the rapidly approaching surface of the lake.

* * *

"Gods, he always looks so scary." He heard a whisper behind him. It came from another child- small, and shivering in his heavy coat.

"I know. Why does he look like that? And he _feels_ scary." Another said.

Sweden looked to only be the age of a child, but he was already used to it. He couldn't help the way he squinted, or that he 'felt' scary. He couldn't help that he wasn't good with words. His people and his kings were always at unease around him. One would think it would be bad for the nation, but it didn't seem to make anything any more worse.

* * *

**_Berwald Oxenstiernia was a bullying victim, who drowned himself (yes I know this wasn't quite drowning, I decided to take some liberties). This explains his quiet and 'scary' behavior._**

**_I apologize for the lag in update this time._**

**_Please review?_**


	20. Emil- Hickory Dickory Dock

**_All of the characters belong to Himeruya Hidekaz and the theory was written by fanfiction's InfernoxPhoenix, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_Moving ahead with the Nordics, I present Iceland._**

* * *

_tick-tock _

It was something that was consistent in his life. The constant snaps of a clock, counting away the seconds, the minutes, the hours, of his life that were wasting away.

It was a steady, mechanical sound that distracted him from the ringing in his ears. The ticking of the small electric clock hanging on his wall was the only thing that kept him sane these days. Spider web cracks spun out from the nail hole, where Emil had haphazardly hammered the thing into the drywall a while ago. He couldn't remember when that was. It could have been ten days ago, it could have been ten weeks. Emil's memory became fuzzier and fuzzier around the edges with every passing day.

He couldn't bare to part with the clock anymore. He was so, oh so alone in this place, and any sound that filled the empty halls made him seem less by himself.

For the first long while, after any other life had left the house's rooms gaping and quiet, he would walk around from room to room. He moved freely, not shackled by the psychotic episodes that set in later. His daily routine was simple enough- mundane, but it was all he had.

The four walls that he was confined to stood in the middle of nowhere. He remembered when his parents would make a monthly trip to the nearest town for groceries, and it was a fifteen mile trip- one he wasn't strong enough to make himself. He was so weak, so prone to sickness; he would have collapsed within the first hour of the undertaking. So he never tried.

So he was here.

It was a bit ironic, for someone so obsessed with a clock, that he couldn't remember time at all- that it blurred together, day and night nearly indistinguishable. He did not count the ticks, he did not glance at the hands on the scratched glass face, he only heard the mechanical taps that rang out into the one room. It was the dining room, only occupied by an old, rickety oak table set accompanied by four creaking chairs that had tears in the pea-green fabric on the seats, and his crouching figure.

He had his back jammed against one of the walls, his knees drawn so close to his chest that they had locked up a long time ago. His gaunt, gaunt face was only illuminated by curtain-filtered rays of sun that shone on the storm of dust in the air. It used to make him sneeze, but he breathed it in with ease now.

His eyes were dulled with open blood vessels, his irises a nearly sightless heather. They were deep-set in his face, tired lines etched into the skin underneath. They were focused on something in the distance that he really couldn't see. He knew that. He did, he did. But his eyes never moved.

Emil never moved.

His mind was so full of empty things now. They swirled around, chaotically clashing with one another, fighting to occupy the narrowing space Emil allowed for thought. He remembered when the prelude to all of this had started.

Now, his parents had fought a lot. He hadn't really been around other children, let alone other families, living his isolated life, so he didn't know if this was normal or not. They fought a lot about a lot of things. Money, mostly. He knew that they weren't rich by any standing, but he thought they were all right. They had a house, and crops, and a dog, and that was how he measure their wealth.

One rainy night in September, he had heard them arguing about money again, but it was a little different. He heard his mother screaming something about keeping a roof over their heads, and his father had yelled back something unintelligible over the water pelting the windowpanes.

He could remember peeking his head out from behind the door jam- the paint chipping against his fingernails. His mother appeared frantic, pacing back and forth, her heels digging into the wooden floorboards. His father's face was stained red with anger, his eyebrows scrunched together in an overall unpleasant look. Emil had made a face.

_"We have no more money!" _He had said.

_"And what do you want me to do about it? I can't pay for the house on my own! It's both of our faults!" _She had responded, stopping her pacing in favor of glaring at his father.

He huffed exasperatedly, turning away and brushing past Emil on his way out. _"Go to bed," _He had said, his tone leaving no room for question.

So Emil had gone to bed that night, wondering why his parents still had to pay for the house. They lived in already, didn't they? Emil thought that money was stupid and that the people who invented it were stupid, too.

A few nights later, he heard the same thing. The house, the house, the house. At the end of the fight, his parents' voices had gotten too quiet for him to hear, even if he pressed a glass against the wall. He thought he heard his name a few times, but he couldn't be sure. He resigned himself to not knowing, and decided to stay out of grown-up affairs. He was just six after all, why should he care?

The next week, his papa didn't travel to town for groceries, and when he asked him why, he had simply replied _"Don't need 'em,"_ Emil thought that was funny, but he knew that what his father said had to be true, right? His father was a great man! He was honest and kind and he was always nice to the animals they had. Besides, he was an adult and he knew what he was talking about.

Emil had started to notice those animals disappearing the week after that. _"Papa, where are the chickens?" _He didn't respond to that, his back turned to him at the sink.

Several nights later, Emil had woken up from nightmares- ones about big scary men with axes. He had pushed himself out of bed and padded down the hall to his parents' bedroom. _"Mama? Papa?" _He had called out as he pushed open the rusty-hinged door, only to be greeted with an unmade bed and a cold draft filling the room with the first signs of autumn.

Confused and bleary-eyed, he had wandered downstairs, fighting the steps that were still too tall and narrow for him all the way down. He called out to his parents again, only to be met with no response. His eyes began to water slightly, concern running amuck in his mind. His little legs carried him hurriedly around the first level of their house. He saw no sign of his parents. Very worried now, he ran to the back door and grabbed for the handle- a bit of a stretch for him. After pushing it open, the bottom scraping against the cement pad underneath it, he ran underneath the oil-dark sky, and around the house, stepping on stones that made his feet hurt, but he was too scared to care.

When he reached the front of the house, he finally saw mama and papa. They were stowing things in a small carriage, whispering back and forth as they fought their things into staying in place.

_"What are you doing?" _He had asked, his voice high and strained from his crying earlier.

_"Oh, Emil." _There had been something strange and uncomfortable in his father's voice then, although he didn't realize it until much later. He had stared at his wife awkwardly.

_"We're going on a trip for a little while. Just a couple of days. We'll be back," _His mother had supplemented, smiling emptily at Emil.

_"Why aren't you taking me?"_

He didn't receive a clear response from that, just a sort of string of excuses that he couldn't understand. It might have been something about "grown-up issues", but his mind was muddled at the time, and had only become more foggy since.

He had watched his parents drive away, his pale hands waving goodbye in the fading moonlight. The beginnings of morning stars glimmered on the horizon, and his parents and the carriage became a smaller and smaller figure as they traveled towards the horizon and its stars.

He had waited a couple of days. Then those stretched into a week, and then two, and then three, and suddenly he felt scared and alone and the dog had run away two days before. His lips tasted like salt, and his hands were always shaking for some reason, and vague remnants of off-key nursery rhymes filled his mind. His mood had dulled to a lackluster glimmer of what it had been. It was then that he had realized.

He was so, so alone. He had been left alone. Alone, alone, alone.

He had started to talk to the birds that landed on the windowsill. Then, even they frightened him. _"Why scamper?"_, he heard them taunt. Everything scared him into running now. All except the clock- ticking away his life.

He knew that the longer he stayed frozen against the wall, his bare feet digging into the splintered hardwood floor, the more his stomach would growl, and the more he wished to leave, but he could not bring himself to move. He never could, and he seemed to him that he never would. How he wanted to scamper away from the clock, just like the mouse in that song, for it scared him so. It scared him so, it scared him so. But his feet would not move, and he could not scamper.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

_ And he did not flee._

* * *

"I found a child today," The voice held more emotion than usual, and boy did that catch Denmark's attention.

"A kid? Where?" He cocked his head towards the stony-eyed teenager he spent far too much time with.

"Where we landed, for the exploration." Norway turned to him. "He was all alone. It was strange."

"Is he like us?" Denmark asked, his curiosity now piqued. A new country? Wouldn't that be exciting?

"I don't know. I can barely get his attention. He keeps trying to run away."

"Huh."

* * *

**_Emil was an abandoned child, who eventually died alone, which explains not only his withdrawn personality, but the way that he was found._**

**_I apologize for the delay. I actually wrote most of this at least a week ago, but I just got around to finishing it._**

**_Please review!_**

**_Also- I need someone to edit upcoming work! I have a quick request on my tumblr ( .com). If literally anyone is interested, could you please, please message me? I would love to have someone to work with._**


	21. Lukas- When You Are Mad, Mad Like This

**_All of the characters belong to Himeruya Hidekaz and the theory was written by fanfiction's InfernoxPhoenix, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them._**

**_Continuing with my favorite Nordic, here's Norway._**

* * *

He hated to sound cliché, but it was one of those days. You know, when you wake up with a ball of existential dread in your stomach and you can feel the world passing by at three-quarter speed.

It was one of those days where he came crashing down from a grandiose, self-inflated high that included an agitated self-disclaimer. Crashing down from a place where he felt as invincible as some god among men, a place where if even for a second, he wasn't just some guy lost to the sloping, gray-paved streets.

Those highs weren't exactly good, and dammit he knew that- various google searches had told him eight thousand times over- but seeing a therapist, or whatever he was supposed to do, would take away that one bit of good feeling left in his life at this point. It was a strange reality for him, a bizarre equilibrium between fucked-up and feeling good.

Oh, any shrink would certainly find his condition fun.

But today was not a day for one of those highs. The depressions came crashing down quickly and suddenly, with little to absolutely no warning. You know how you're supposed to slowly wane off of a drug, so that the impact of stopping it doesn't feel that bad? Well his messed-up mind didn't give him that opportunity. He would just be in the middle of dinner, or waiting in the queue at the store, or he would just wake up one morning and be confronted with that same feeling.

It was the highs that made it worth it, really. Sure, he'd run into problems with people in the past, a lot of problems, mostly from the aggression that came with the thrill, but that was just a pithy price to pay, really. After all, all of us living in this miserable world were bound to feel insignificant and pathetic at some point, so why not take advantage of the helpless feeling of grandiosity if you had it? It was pretty damned warped logic, if you asked him, but, hey, whatever gets you through the day, they say.

But the highs certainly didn't feel worth it right now. There he was, knees smashed together, his body curled in on itself, a tangle of blankets- which were never warm enough at times like this- laying over his limp body. His hands were pale in the early morning light streaming through his window, which seemed far too bright despite the cloud-filtered gray barely making it past his blinds. He felt his hair splayed out around his head, unbrushed and tangled from a neglect of person hygiene- that was a side effect too.

The numbers on his alarm clock silently flashed on the second, as they always did. He could hear the sidewalk clicking outside of his window, as it always did. He could hear the flits of conversations as early-morning pedestrians passed by, leading their lives without being incapacitated, like he was. He heard his heating unit buzzing faintly in the background, the buzz sounding more like a hallow knock since he hadn't gotten it serviced in a while.

His lips were chapped- dry and scraping against each other whenever Lukas pursed his lips, but that certainly didn't spur him to move. He always found it particularly hard to move his head from his pillow, and not in the way that most people didn't like to get out of bed, it was that he _couldn't_.

He hated it, really.

But just who could he tell that to? He hadn't had anyone in some time. No family, no friends. He was alone in this, with only walls as spectators. At least they never criticized him.

He stayed in that same position, his thighs stuck together, his knees pulled up to his chest, for some time. How long, he couldn't exactly be sure. It wasn't like he had somewhere important to be. No need to join the pedestrians on the sidewalk, no motivation to go and talk to women and men alike as the heels of their shoes clicked on the pavers. So, he stayed.

Once he managed to haul himself up, limbs stiff and barely moving, the only thing was that his feet were cold. There was a pile of clothes in the corner, but no socks to be seen. Oh well, it wasn't like wearing socks or not wearing socks made any difference.

The light was just as gray as it always was this time of year. It didn't do much to actually illuminate the small apartment he inhabited- it only made the floor seem flatter, the furniture sharper. At least that's how it looked through the lens of the lows. Who knows, it might have even been bright and luminous if it weren't for that. Everything was warped from Lukas's perspective, no matter what lens he was looking through. It was like someone had put one of those colored gel films they used in theater lighting over his view.

He supposed that that had now leaked into the casual viewer's perspective, too. Oh well, he had passed that point of caring a long time ago.

Cold feet, sore knees, stiff neck. On the better days, it was all the opposite. His hands burned, he stood tall, his eyes were wide and alive.

Now, only his eyelids and his throat burned.

He thought he heard the beginnings of the rain slating against his windowpanes. The little pebble-light taps hit the glass, turning the light darker. It ran in rivets down the pane, collecting on the sill, worming its way into his apartment and onto his floor. He thought he should put a bowl down. He didn't.

What was the point anyway? He lived alone, both in his home and outside of it. His parents were gone. His phone was always silent. So, he might as well let the water stain his floor since no one would be coming over any time soon, or any time at all.

He'd had a boyfriend once. He was kind and tall and he had these eyes so blue that they looked like the sky on the clearest of winter days. But that had been it for Lukas. Once he was gone, he was left with nothing, and it had been that way ever since.

The impulse always came and went, but it always lingered in the back of Lukas's mind. It was on days like these, when his throat especially burned, when he couldn't feel his toes anymore, when his mind was more static than lucidity, that it really stuck. It even haunted him during the highs, too, the reckless giddiness drove his mind to scrape every corner of his skull.

He was standing by his kitchen table now, the light rippling on top of the pale wood from the water. He had four chairs there, but only one showed any signs of use. Perhaps he had been too optimistic when he purchased it all of those months ago. The tile was even colder on his already numb feet.

The hypersensitivity always plagued him, no matter what end of the fucked-up spectrum he was on. Everything was boiling, everything was freezing, his neighbor above him walking on his ceiling was unbearably loud, the noon-time light was too bright to see through. He supposed that with everything else in his swinging between one extreme and another that he had gotten used to it to a degree. It was like the fact of the highs and the lows: it wasn't something someone was supposed to be used to, yet there he was.

The impulse to stop breathing, to stop his mind from whirling, to stop him from crashing while waiting for the bus, was like a terrible itch. No matter how hard to tried not to scratch it, he found his fingernails clawing at it anyway.

The belt that he chose was a warm brown leather. It was smooth, relatively unused, but used enough that it wasn't stiff. He was silent during the whole proceeding. Even his usually racing thoughts lay still, just for this moment, perhaps to give him a final reprieve, or perhaps to let him reconsider.

He opted for the former.

There was a light fixture above his unused table, rooted into the ceiling with a metal base. He figured that it would do, and fastened the top end of the belt to it. It was all quite mechanical, his movements. He figured that a typical person would be all full of cotton-mouth and shaking hands, but since when had he prescribed to the standard train of thought? If he was going to go out, at least it would be on his own terms, and executed like the rest of his life.

He climbed his lonely chair, the legs wobbling a bit under the strange distribution of his weight. The wood was smooth under his freezing toes and if he was going to be honest, it felt sort of nice.

The sensation of him tightening the belt loop around his neck was a strange one. The long sleeves of his sweater kept getting caught in the buckle as he fixed it, leaving raspberry-colored threads in the golden metal. He tried to pull them out, but they had fastened themselves there, too stubbornly wound around to budge. If that wasn't a piece of aptly-timed irony, he didn't know what was.

Once he had finished his task, he stood there for a moment or two or three. A flash of anxiety ran through him, from his feet to his crown. His knees knocked together a bit, and he told himself that it was simply the cold. His heating had never worked well anyway. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as a shudder passed through his body. It was nothing, it was always nothing.

All he had to do was kick the chair away, and there he would go. The breath would slowly leave his lungs, and purple-faced or not, he would leave the turbulence of the highs and the lows and the ups and the downs. Of course, there were no guarantees that if anything came after, that it would be any better. He would have to harness that reckless abandon, and hope for the best this time.

The light was just as cold as it always was, and it cast his skin in a sickly white hue. His hair was silver, his eyes were slate. There was nothing left to hold back now. He would have rather had his fingertips on fire and his blood running races through his veins, but Lukas rarely got what he wanted. This was the straw that he drew, and whatever gods there were would be damned to give him a better lot.

So, he would try his luck in the afterlife, or reincarnation, or whatever people wanted to believe in. It was the little choices that determined one's fate there, and a little choice was going to be his last. A step, a kick, and then it was over.

The belt pulled, the ceiling cracked but didn't give way. His feet kicked a few times as he felt the last bits of the low leaving him. His knees still knocked.

So there he remained, his eyes still blank, his feet still bare.

* * *

"Ya know, you should really express more emotion, Norge," Denmark said the comment over his shoulder, a passing remark. "You're a little bland sometimes. I mean it doesn't really matter I guess."

Norway hummed in response, not even paying attention. He fiddled with the ends of his sweater, and continued to stare out the window of the train. His landscape passed in a blur before his eyes.

Denmark fell silent, as he always did after Norway didn't talk for a while. He tried, he really did, but he had learned to keep quiet on occasion.

It wasn't that Norway didn't want to express emotion, it's just that he found that everything went smoother if he didn't let them get the run of him. They were too temperamental, and he had a country to hold up.

* * *

**_Well, this one was deeply personal to write, but I won't get into that. Anyway, I apologize for the long gap in between the last update and this one. Now that my living situation has stabilized, I should be able to update much more frequently._**

**_Speaking of updating, I have a full-length story that is currently in progress that I will updating within the next week or so. I've received some good beginning reviews for the one chapter I have up, so if you're of my writing, I really urge you to go read it. I'm pretty excited about where it will be going!_**

**_If you want more updates, my tumblr is onebillion-stars_**

**_Thank you for reading- please review!_**


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